Final Fantasy X: Otherworld
by RJtheClown
Summary: Sin. The destroyer that has terrorised Spira for a millennium. Fallen summoner Braska begins the pilgrimage of Yevon in a bid to end Sin's chaos. With his guardian Auron, Braska enlists the aid of a drunkard named Jecht, who claims to be a Blitzball player from the mythical lost city of Zanarkand. Can Braska bring the Eternal Calm? And can Jecht return home to make things right?
1. Dream's End

FINAL FANTASY X:

_OTHERWORLD_

I

Dream's End

Her eyes called out to him in the darkness. Sinister patterns slithered above him, like burnt skin squirming where sight gave way to imagination. Hundreds of feet beneath his floating body a village roared afire, pyreflies oozing from charred remains. A pestilent wind swept over and scattered the captured forms of suffering into ash clouds.

The beach nearby was washed in blood, clotting in the grains. Bloated bodies rocking in the waves were pray to competing monstrosities, tearing away an arm here, a kidney there. The skin was blackened and cracked, exposing raw, pink under flesh. It was the scene from a thousand nightmares… but apparently not his. He had only moments before been immersed in familiar lapping water that had lovingly caressed his waist. What happened to the grippy rubber ball in his hand and the towering city behind him... What happened to _Zanarkand_?

As in response to his bombardment of questions, shadowy creatures converged and tore chunks out of the spasming flesh canvas from within. A gash stretched wide, white beams of reality blazing through. He threw his arms across his eyes, only for them to stretch into the spiraling white hole that drew all matter inexorably towards it. An instant glandular fatigue struck him and his eyelids fell heavy. All that remained was loneliness. He wanted someone -_anyone_- to be there with him. And then, a sweet, solitary voice emerged from the pained choir.

The distantly familiar words peppered his mind: "Stop fooling around, Jecht! I have something really important I want to say! I _need_ you. Jecht… I love you."

Jecht's stifled moans conceded to a shrill laugh. He gave into the invisible tide, his voice falling to a whimper. "I know, baby, I know."

* * *

Bevelle's Tower of Light was even higher than he could have dreamt. It pierced the clouds like a blade crafted in the name of Yevon, as testament to man's defiance.

The vantage point afforded Braska a total view of earyl evening Bevelle, its masses still pulsing through the city's narrow streets. The city was divided into quadrants like the wings of a butterfly, with homes, parishes and open-stall markets. Such construction recurred throughout the city: gold, green and silver onion domes atop lanky red clay, steepling upwards and inwards towards the tower, as though elevating it towards the heavens.

Braska stood at the base of a soaring flight of steps leading up to the grand altar at the pinnacle of the Tower and quite conceivably, the world. This ancient chapel was the brainchild of hundreds of skilled architects. Sturdy arced stanchions held it steady, decorated by fine silk sashes that fluttered in the gentle breeze. All of it was painted in a flaming vermillion by the thick dusk that grappled for supremacy with whatever remained of the day.

Beyond Bevelle's eastern borders lay an interminable ocean, still with the balmy autumn air but teeming with life beneath its surface. The imposing Mount Gagazet dominated the north, its summit ravaged by blizzards. It denied Bevelle's only possible view of the fabled city of Zanarkand, its mystique growing with each failed pilgrimage. Eighty nine years past and still Spira hoped for the ascension of a new High Summoner.

Braska found himself immersed in fantasy. Though it was only sanctioned for the union of Maesters and the wealthy, he saw his daughter there at the altar, wed to a fine man: a man of substance, of significance. From his initial embarrassment, an impish grin erupted. An old man could dream, could he not?

Though Braska was not what you would call 'old', not like the high priests of the temples. He was still youthful and vibrant in heart and mind, his break into a fourth decade not enough to slow him down. But increasingly in Spira, to reach thirty-five was quite the achievement.

In a world fraught by the destroyer known as Sin, summoners were journeying from twelve, thirteen, fourteen years and up. While mothers and children slept obliviously in their beds, these young warlocks would do battle with the most grueling fiends in the most hostile climes of Spira.

"Please, milord. We should go."

The reverent, yet somewhat anxious words of his guardian brought him back to the task at hand. He had sidetracked again. Smoothing down the tassels of his layered red gown, Braska reset his form with an elegance that underpinned his every motion.

The Palace of Saint Bevelle at the base of the steps behind him housed the Chamber of the Fayth, as decreed by flapping sashes suspended at either sides of the entrance. Braska did not need to read the scribing to understand what was expected of his conduct. Very few men were deemed worthy to address the Fayth but there he was, soon to meld minds with Bahamut, Aeon of Bevelle. That is if his mind was not crushed in the process. Swallowing deliberately, as to punctuate his doubts, he strode into the hall, devoted guardian shadowing him. It led into a gloomy, spiraling descent to the bowels of the temple. If anything, it was more like a pit, with a coiled staircase angling down into its black recesses.

"Ah, if only there were a faster way to the trials…" pondered Braska, stroking the dimple of his chin. "Perhaps a machina of some kind?"

The ironic tone in his voice would have been obvious to anyone in Spira but his utterly staid guardian -face now drained of colour.

"Ugh, it was a _joke_, Auron. I'm fully aware that machina violate the teachings. Just try to relax. The world isn't about to end."

Auron waited for his lord to step into the disguised depths before uttering, "Isn't it?"

* * *

"Aren't you going to help him?"

The air was thickest there, in the antechamber at the bottom of the Palace. It had gathered and fermented, matching the mood. To say the people gathered there -summoners and guardians alike, were concerned was obvious. Many just wanted their turn with the Fayth after a particularly taxing Cloister of Trials; others, including the would-be summoner who had yelled to Auron, were genuinely worried about their fellow man's health.

Auron declined to acknowledge the young man, just sipping the bottle from his right hip vacantly. He sat slumped at the foot of a wall, his left hand propped on his raised knee. The guardian did all he could, from opining the more trivial features of the room, to chugging back the fiery Nog in his decanter, all for the purpose of fleeing from the possibility of Braska's premature demise.

"It's been nearly an hour now!" the teen pleaded. "He may die!"

"You would have me disobey the precepts, fool child?"

The guardian's retort boomed through the startled youngster, who's figure visibly contracted. Auron considered an apology, but opted against it. Though taciturn and often crass, he was an idealistic young man who hoped to change the world. He was also a bearer of wide-ranging emotions that he had been taught to repress. At that moment, the nihilism the alcohol provided was still insufficient to smother his anxiety. His black, sleeveless Bevellian breastplate did little to mask the pounding of his heart.

Braska had not even began the pilgrimage; Auron did not know what he would do if his lord failed so cruelly and so soon. He was a Warrior Monk no more, cast out for refusing the high priest's daughter in marriage. His mind wandered to dark possibilities: a mercenary, a vagabond, a memory.

He covered his exposed arm with the scarlet coat that had been pulled down to his waist on the right side. He was certain the room temperature plunged in that instant, hopefully a sign his lord had successfully addressed the Fayth.

* * *

From within the chamber, Braska did not know how to act or what to feel. Not only was this his first time with a Fayth, this was Bahamut, a true legend of bedtime tales whispered to him as a lad. Priests had reveled in the telling of ancient tales of summoners dispatching machina armies with the great dragon beside them, its flares of energy enough to fry circuits. And there he was, facing the sacrificed child behind the beast.

The boy was not entirely there, floating inches above his statue, but his presence was overpowering. It was like the child possessed the room, only ancient divine seals detaining him in the room. Though his mouth was sealed, the Hymn of the Fayth emanated from him somehow. The poignant tremolo of a choirboy betrayed a glimmer of the solitude that was the existence of a Fayth.

The statue was laid flat in the centre of the room, trapped in raised, curved glass. It part resembled the beast, but also had traces of humanity, as though frozen in metamorphosis. Its strapping wing bared a likeness to the child's purple robe, whooshing across a taloned hand beneath, neither human nor beast. The Fayth's waist was immersed in a circular tracery of golden curls, something Braska connected from his upbringing in the Temple as the Garland of Divine Sun, a mysterious emblem from ancient Zanarkand. It supposedly symbolised the cycle of life, death and rebirth and was a symbol of great reverence. The sacrificed was facing away, drowning in the rock.

Braska returned to the child, shrouded by the hooded robe which, along with his bowed slavish posture, veiled his eyes. Braska presumed the child had been a guttersnipe in his mortal life, judging by the tattered coat which was severed roughly at both shoulders and faded pants torn at the knees in the same manner.

"Were you expecting a prince?" asked the Fayth.

Braska's cheeks flushed beet red and he lowered his glance. Not even a stray thought was private in this chamber. "My apologies. I shouldn't have judged you. I'm so sorry."

Without further embarrassment, Braska pinned back his robe and sat in seiza. The summoner slipped into a state of meditation as he had been taught. From here, he was able to became one with the dreams of the Fayth.

* * *

I am the first of my kind, from the days before recorded time, in Bevelle. Summoners such as Yevon were desired, and many. Machina was but an idle fantasy. But something changed. In the subsequent generations, summoners began to lose their command over pyreflies; their abilities deserted them. The need for a replacement grew, and that is why there was machina. This was the dawn of the machina civilisation, and machina cities appeared throughout Spira in an industrial revolution.

A long, long time later came Yevon, the first summoner for millennia. He was ostracised as a boy, until he demonstrated to the world how his powers could benefit them.

Whilst on a pilgrimage as a young man to Bevelle, he took me as his Aeon. And as I forged a mental nexus with him, he managed to steal a particular memory from me that only a summoner with such potential could, a thought most ancient. This was how he learned to create new Fayth.

_He must have been so powerful._

Like no other summoner in history. Summoners were 'extinct' then, yet he somehow emerged, a new hope. Indeed, he was so influential that his teachings are all that Spira hang onto in these desperate times.

He rose to prominence as the leader of his home city Zanarkand, as a peerless summoner and a canny diplomat. He attained a skilful blend of machina and Aeons to bolster the defences of his city. But then emerged war and eventually Sin, to destroy the world of machina…

* * *

Braska's eyes fluttered open and he was awake. He had returned from the dream of the Fayth, wearied and prostrate, his body asprawl on the stone floor. The boy was nowhere to be seen, his statue no longer throbbing with the same orange light as before.

"I am linked with you now, summoner. You have me; use me to aid you in your defeat of Sin. Do not grieve for those who have and will become lost along the way. The past is changeless. Do not allow yourself to be consumed by negative emotion. Your future is yours to make…"

Braska leant on his staff and worked his way up the shaft until he was standing. Flashes of the Fayth child and the Aeon Bahamut became a feedback loop in his head until it shook his skull. The black King of Dragons, with its powerful thighs, its proud jutting chest and its crimson wings, was a creature to awe and to fear.

Like the memory of a dream, the images slipped away and Braska was allowed to leave through the opened door to the antechamber. Auron bolted to his feet on sight of his master, vacant now like a phantom. Braska took a couple of toddler's steps and collapsed into the sturdy arms of his guardian.

"Is, is it done, milord?"

Braska nodded, not entirely sure where he was. "I am a summoner."

Auron eased him to the ground so that his head was resting in his lap. Braska stared into the ceiling, thoughts of vengeance taking flight in his mind. His pilgrimage, his last chance to prove them wrong, had begun.


	2. Sin's Toxin

II

_Sin's Toxin_

Slumped feebly at the foot of an old oak tree, Jecht wondered what he had gotten himself into. Having negotiated with a passing merchant for the sale of a half-empty flask of Nog, he was now well on his way. The bottle of spirits rested on the ground, propped limply between his fingers and thumb. Jecht scratched the back of his neck in utter disbelief at the events from the past hour or so. His sense of security had been taken and ripped to tatters before his eyes, and he could only think to run away from it with cheap booze. Knocking the back of his skull against the oak, he struggled to pin down that last memory of 'The Big-Zee'.

_

* * *

Zanarkand: an hour before…_

_Out of sight, out of mind…_ Jecht repeated the cycle in his head, which in turn brought him back to what he was trying to evade. Blitzball had increasingly become a game of politics, of exorbitant salaries and critically, of the gulf between superstar and everyday Joe. The art of the sport had been swept upstream at some point and no one quite knew when. Jecht, by his own admission, had advocated such drastic changes to the game, even though he was essentially a purist. Anything to get his face on one more billboard was alright by him. Ultimately, he had no problems with 'selling out'.

Jecht saw many boats anchored at the docks tonight; some were free, sailing towards the stadium. Somewhat nostalgically, he stared across the waters into the far distance to the arena, lit up magnificently in the early evening. Pre-match music blasted from the amplifiers and up into the sky, a feast of driving heavy rock deployed to send the crowd into a craze before blitz-off. It meant only one thing: the match was starting… without him.

The portable metal awnings from the roof of the stadium slid back, exposing the bustling stands and the Blitz Sphere itself. Technically, subtle gravity charges stimulated the pyreflies in the water to the edges of the pool, where their increased density congealed the circumference to create a perfect containing sphere… or something like that. Seeing as this was in constant effect during a match, it certainly allowed for some interesting moves, such as sending opposing defenders flying out of the playing area and into the stand without causing a major security hazard. Any hole would be repaired by the pyreflies pretty much as soon as it was made.

The roars billowing upwards into the open air reminded him of all those numberless trophies won, victories snatched from the jaws of defeat and the adulation from the crowd, all for him. That was why his guts rumbled in frustration whenever he reminded himself why he was alone in the ocean. That jackass Daegan had benched him for the next match for 'lacking match fitness', and Jecht being Jecht, couldn't quite take it on the chin. What was the point in training, when one had already attained perfection? However, he did feel strangely drawn to the ocean with his boat for a little practice, if only to clear his head. Out here, far away from the coast and the fans, he was alone with just a ball and an endless stretch of water.

In his prime, he could have held his breath while being knocked around the sphere for an hour easy; less than a month ago, a sports commentator (_now out of a job_) suggested that Jecht would struggle to last five minutes. But the great Jecht in attack for only a half of Blitz was surely better than some rookie or a dickless wonder for the whole game. Jecht was _still_ the best. He could drift out of it for a long time, leave the spectators wondering, only to hit the Jecht shot out of nothing and win it for the Zanarkand Abes.

It had got to the stage where the audience considered it was all a ploy on behalf of the great one, that he was still the presence they knew and loved and he was playfully leading them on. They would pay their hard-earned Gil out of curiosity to see if Jecht really was over the hill, only to see him pull it out of the hat when he needed to the most. Jecht was silently grateful for the misconception on their part. Though his skills were generally as sharp as ever, he was soft physically; the once crisp contours of his abs had become dulled by a thin layer of fat. Though still possessing an enviable body by most men's standards, it was mediocre for one of a top-level athlete, unacceptable for one who had transcended the sport for so long.

His greatest asset in over a decade involved in the game –his unstoppable trademark shot aside- was the ability to hook the crowd and make them become the sixth man, quite unlike anyone else. He was unequivocally the best performer to ever enter the sphere pool and the quicker Daegan realised it, the longer he'd get to keep his job. Three coaches in the last two seasons had fallen by the wayside for attempting to keep him out of the team.

…_They say you don't practice anymore, that you're gonna retire…_

…_Let them talk. I'm still the best…_

"Let 'em _talk!_"

In a moment of fury, Jecht flung the blitzball forwards inside kicking distance and arching his body, smashed it so hard that its bladder burst and the rubbery husk just drooped limply from his foot. The tightly compacted air within slowly farted its way out of the gash caused by Jecht's toe.

"Aw, hell…"

The empty ball oscillated on his foot and then whipped away, vanishing beneath the surface twenty feet before him. Jecht even found himself moving in an ever more rapid arc in the water. Only as he began to backstroke did he manage to remain stationary. He could only look on in astonishment as his boat sailed past him and towards what looked a whirlpool, deepening and picking up speed. He meekly extended a hand, as though to stop this force from claiming his pride and joy. Alas, the boat teetered around the wide rim for a moment and then vanished entirely, like a bug spiralling inevitably towards a plughole, its destruction imminent.

Sudden silence was just as quickly shattered by a booming spray. A large mass of water rose high above the ocean, contained impossibly in the air. It encased whatever lay within in a globe, not too dissimilar to the shape of the Blitz Sphere. Jecht was certain something was alive in there, peering out at him through the water and the gravitating remains of his boat.

In a swift expulsion of water and planks of wood the creature revealed itself, painting the dusky sky an explosive quicksilver for a moment before the false rain hammered down on him. Even such an explosive fanfare could not prepare Jecht for the monstrosity that met him. It was a sight that would surely etch in his mind forever more: dark, thin, oily flesh stretching over too much bulk, skin swelling and tearing in places.

The beast's mouth was constrained by horrific stitches of flesh at the sides and the noises emerging from it… terrified him: mounting screams of agony, the lead voice female. Though the cries brought an icy shudder to Jecht, none of them seemed to make any solid purchase in the air; it sounded like genocide in reverse. And for the encore, the faint squirming noise of maggots, or of countless wriggling eyes in their sockets.

This observation had been made in the course of a heartbeat, after which the beast yielded to the constraints of gravity, plummeting dramatically back to the ocean below. On impact, sound distorted for a moment and the force was enough to topple Jecht from two hundred feet away.

From its partially submerged position, the gruesome assailant looked on the distant buildings and the people possibly in contempt before cutting through them with powerful blasts discharged from its back, crushing the wharf in an unremitting series of murderous blows. It _must_ have been a dream, yet the beast seemed so terrifyingly real, everything else paled into insignificance.

And then, it touched him. If touched meant being hit extremely hard by scaly flesh and an ensuing tidal wave that pushed him down relentlessly into the ocean depths. He had the instincts to brace himself for impact with the ocean bed, which still mercilessly smashed the air from his lungs. Semi-conscious, Jecht drifted slowly to the surface, peaceful blue glistening in his eyes. As he broke the surface, the monster scrupulously scooped him into its yawning mouth and the world became senseless.

_

* * *

Woods exit: now…_

Now completely legless, Jecht found standing too complicated and allowed his rump to slam to the ground. One last swig brought about the end and he smashed the bottle against the floor absent-mindedly. Massaging his brow, he tried in vain to determine where he was. It was late in the day, the sky erupting with a hearty crimson and then submitting in large parts to the quilted violet of night and its stars. His head seemed to float on his shoulders and he was unable to stabilise it long enough to get a good view of his environment. It did seem as though he was on a bridge connecting an isle to the mainland. There was seawater all around, sucked up and then spewed out in the troughs running parallel with the high bridge. The bridge was enclosed by arched, marble walls with thin windows offering a squashed view of the ocean. Jecht sat at a particularly raised area of the bridge, which allowed him to peer down on the sculpted buildings littering the coast and piling up higher and higher into the main core of the city beyond. They were reminiscent of the buildings back home, with that same tall, elegant structure, only made with a primitive red stone rather than metal, concrete and permaspex. Searchlights spat light high into the air. The drunk and startled Jecht imagined that they were looking for him.

"Did you do that, sir?"

Jecht barely heard what the patrol sentry had said, ignoring it as gibberish. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he returned to staring at his crotch.

"I'm talking to you, _scum!_"

The guard flicked out his boot in a moment of indiscipline -not a kick by any means, but it had enough force to sprawl Jecht's body askew on the ground. The closest thing to a response was a gurgle creeping up from his diaphragm. Jecht peered up at the armoured man who heaved him to his feet by the fabric of his vest.

"Now, I'll ask again. Did you smash that bottle, sir?"

Jecht guffawed slightly, a bent smile rippling across his face. His eyes had that look to them: the lights were on but nobody was home. "Nah, officer. It was… my evil twin, Daegan."

Gushing into laughter, Jecht rocked backwards and doubled over, slamming onto his shoulder blades. "Aw man, I'm so wasted…"

"Get up!" roared the impatient sentry, hoisting Jecht back to his feet once more. Jecht's cheeks palpitated, clearly filling up with something from within. He slapped a hand to his mouth, desperate not to hurl, but unable to contain it any longer, he let the contents spray across the guard's boots. It continued to drip in thick strings from the corner of his mouth, splashing on the hallowed high bridge underfoot.

The guard's face locked in uncontainable rage. "You're… under arrest… sir!"

His voice squeaked girlishly, fury tearing him from his normally ultra-professional demeanour. Jecht could not help but laugh. The guard, face flushed a spattered red by now, seized Jecht by the wrist and spun him round, binding his hands together with a coarse length of rope from his belt. Proud of his arrival on the new scene, the lout declared his identity for the world to hear. "The name's… Jecht… _JECHT!_ Don't you forget it, _hic_…"

Before he could ramble any further, he felt the blunt weight of a foreign object crack the base of his skull. The floor then smashed him in the face and his world went dead.


	3. Lucky Break

III

_Lucky Break_

Jecht's gargled moans resembled something from a swamp, echoing violently in the hallowed hall. It spoke volumes of the hurt he was going through at that moment, the sound of bile surging into his throat and then back down into his gut. His suffering drew cackles of scorn from the two guards on the other side of the bars.

However, it would wrong to assume that the guards had had their fun with the drunkard. All the damage inflicted upon him was of his own making, vast quantities of liquor working its way through his bloodstream, making him logy and poisoned. He found himself crumpled up on a cold, stony floor, spine and joints stiff and weary, his memories a solitary bastion of peace.

…_Stop goofing around Jecht! I have something really important I want to say! I need you. Jecht… I love you…_

At first, he thought the sweet voice was that of his wife back in Zanarkand, Linnya. However, the more he replayed the words, the voice began to deepen, coarsen, as though it had been forged in the bloodshed of many battles. _Who? And why had everything become so damned complex all of a sudden?_

Ah, Linnya… his number one fan, his love, his friend. Jecht let out a sharp, strangled sigh, realising he badly needed her now. He wanted that cool brown hair in the traps of his fingers. He wanted her sparkling eyes staring into his, and not at his body, or his Blitzballs, or his wallet.

Jecht returned to the now and racked his brain trying to piece together last night, erratically placing blurs of an event next to others, speculating at some sort of a sequential order. The thoughts came to him vaguely, only to slip through his fingers. His reality now was a cell that had been stripped down to the bare necessities in which to survive. Little more than a basic space, it featured a bucket to pass by-products into and some rusty bars lowered like a portcullis. It was all so ye-olde-cloak-and-dagger crap. What were they planning to do: hang, draw and quarter him in the town square? Wherever he was, it sure wasn't Zanarkand. But Jecht knew his rights. They had denied him a lawyer and even a phone call, dismissing such inventions as the ramblings of a drunken lunatic.

He stirred, his chiselled, scarred features painted and then dimmed by the shadows cast from the bars. The masked guard posted nearest him -a woman- was in earshot of his strained pleas for attention, but chose to ignore the prisoner. Surging from the gloom, Jecht's fingers curled around the cool metal bars.

"Hey! You listenin'? I want out of this joint! You'll be hearin' from my attorney!"

"You'll shut up if you know what's good for you, braggart."

Jecht mumbled something incoherent just below audible levels and returned to his prone position. He got the feeling that his plight was only worsening with each outburst, but he was alone, sober and pissed off. No one put the great Jecht behind bars for long. Heads would roll for this… or, at least they would have back in the Big-Zee. These people truly did not know who he was, and were impassive to the fantastic bribe sums he was offering. Whoever was calling the shots, it certainly was not him.

The female guard became distracted by a presence entering the corridor. Though Jecht could not see, he recognised the guard's gesture -hands globed and head bowed- as the Blitzball signal for victory back in Zanarkand. Did it mean the same in this backwater town, or did it entail something else entirely?

His guest looked official, possibly a priest, swathed in a leafy red robe. In the centre of the chest was a round, metallic plate of armour, tied to a beige hood pulled down over his shoulders. It implied that this holy man had seen, and would soon see, a fair bit of action. His flowing silver hair spilled out at the sides of his blue cowl, tied at the ends with bands, and on his head was a strange sort of pronged 'crown', with a green jewel adorning the centre of his forehead. In his right hand he clenched a staff: a simple blue shaft about six feet in length, with a golden wreath at the top, red feathers laced within and decorated by tassels. Judging by its lavishness and the priest's straight, healthy posture, it seemed unlikely that the stave was used as a walking aid.

"Who are you?" Jecht called to the guy in the goofy robe.

The reply was mostly cynical, with a cautious aftertaste. "You are the one they call Jecht, the man from Zanarkand, are you not?"

The words, though at a reasonable volume, amplified through Jecht's skull as an unbearable din. Hung-over and eyeshot, Jecht glared up at the priest. "What of it?"

A second visitor, who had been secreted by a wall, swooped into sight, his eyes ablaze. "Watch your tongue, knave!"

Jecht tried to look mean without bursting into fits of laughter. What kind of clown used the word knave in meaningful conversation? It seemed the comedian was a warrior of some kind, judging by his robust attire. From beneath his jacket peaked a black breastplate clamped to his torso. The ankle-length, maroon coat was pulled down on one side, revealing his wiry right arm. His grey slacks, battle gauntlet and metal-plated boots were not what you'd call fashionable, but would be useful in a sudden violent situation that required balanced defence and mobility. His face, though youthful and striking, looked weathered beyond his years, as though many a grimace had furrowed it. Long, raven hair had been tied back into a ponytail that overflowed into the nape of his coat and at the sides of his head, further maturing his appearance.

For his impetuous outburst, the guardian earned a curt nod from his master, as a warning to pipe down. It would seem the pair had devised some sort of strategy prior to their arrival. The robed man returned to Jecht and retained a neutral posture. "Ah, my apologies. I am Braska, a summoner. I've come to take you from this place."

Jecht sucked through his teeth impatiently and clambered to his feet. Folding his arms over his bare chest, his voice fell to a sceptical baritone. "Sounds sweet… What's the catch?"

Braska chuckled, his generous facade shattered instantly. "That easy to see, was it?" He found his tongue wandering uncertainly in his mouth, trying to form his words with care. "I soon leave on a pilgrimage… to Zanarkand."

"_Seriously?_"

"I would like you to join us. It will be a dangerous trip. Yet, if we do reach Zanarkand… my prayers will be answered, and you will be able to go home, we think. What say you?"

"Great, let's go!" Jecht replied frantically, like the words couldn't escape his lips soon enough. Though he was trying to be cool with his negotiator, he struggled to mask his desire to go back home.

"So _quick_?"

"Anything to get outta _here_!" Jecht strained, massaging the crick out of his neck, something brought about by spending the night on a stone floor.

"Then it's settled."

Braska's guardian could no longer hold his tongue, veiled disgust finally exploding to the surface. "But I must protest! This… _drunkard_, a guardian?"

"Hey! You want to step in _here_ and say that?"

"What does it matter?" said Braska, verbally stepping between the two bulls. "No one truly believes that _I_, a fallen summoner wed to an Al Bhed, could possibly defeat Sin. This is what they say. No one expects us to succeed."

Braska's previously fluid movement crashed. He stood rigid in position, limbs taut with regret, resentment and a simmering passion also. The guardian hushed again, barely muttering his lord's name, as he did whenever his summoner spoke of the expectancy of them to fail. Like his master, he came from a similarly ashamed past and knew only peer ridicule. The difference between him and Braska was that he would often become mired in his dishonour and pin himself down with it, whereas the summoner would bounce back from whatever adversity.

"Let's show them they're wrong. A fallen summoner, a man from Zanarkand… and a warrior monk, doomed to obscurity for refusing the hand of the priest's daughter. What delightful irony it would be if _we_ defeated Sin!"

The summoner seemed taken by the fantasies of what could occur in the days and weeks ahead. This party must have been the lowliest, most bottom-of-the-barrel bunch to ever start the journey. It would be ironic if they could end the ninety year rampage, but also a figurative middle finger to the pompous senior clergymen of Yevon.

"Stop gabbin' and get me outta here!" Jecht yelled impatiently, annoyed by his own incarceration, and this guy's self-satisfied drivel.

Braska turned back to the prisoner, partially annoyed by his lack of manners but also partially enchanted by it. He nodded to the female guard on his right, who, with tangible reluctance, pulled down the rusty metallic lever that controlled the portcullis.

"Ah, free at last!"

Jecht sprang from his enclosure, bursting past Braska and into the freedom of the hallway. Jogging on the spot and flexing his rusty arms, it would be easy to observe him with a degree of derision. But to the man from Zanarkand, freedom never tasted so sweet. He cracked his neck from side to side, the popping sounds cannoning through the halls. After a few moments he slowed down, the frustration worked out of his system. Peering down into the deceptively peaceful waters of the Via Purifico, he realised how close he had come to being fish food. The male guard had told him something about desecrating holy land with his "foul, drunken presence", and had taunted him with tales about those who had ended up in the Via Purifico. Now in the same free space as that particular jerk, Jecht glowered at him as though to punch holes in his face. He considered lunging at the bastard, but managed to retain a shred of self-discipline.

"Now, Jecht. I am in your hands until we reach Zanarkand." Braska spoke. It was a reminder to Jecht of his new responsibilities as a guide, and as a warning to not abuse his trust.

"Yeah, yeah. So, what's a summer-ner, anyway?"

* * *

Two foaming mugs of ale came firmly down on the wooden table, suds splashing and soaking up in the oak. Jecht flicked out a couple of coins, which rattled and shimmied before coming to a still. The man from Zanarkand then proceeded to tear into a roasted chicken wing laid out on the plate in front of him, his more primal instincts in need of satisfaction since he had awoken. Sat opposite him, Braska grimaced inconspicuously and nudged his glass to one side. 

They were dining in a low-end restaurant in town, bathed in the rich cherry glow of a late afternoon or an early evening. Little more than a large canopy supported by wooden rafters, 'The Greedy Pig' sheltered a few rickety tables and little else. Besides Jecht and himself, there was a modest young couple being served by a particularly disinterested waiter. It was all Summoner Braska could realistically afford; summoning was not the most affluent profession, especially for one excommunicated from the temples of Yevon such as himself.

Through a mouthful of meat and beer, Jecht muttered, "You know, Braska, you're really talkin' my language. Bailin' a guy out of jail and buyin' him food and drink like this…"

Jecht took a strained gulp and continued between breaths. He made a strange slurping noise, hardly endearing himself to the summoner. "So, why me?"

"Well, when I discovered the whereabouts of a man claiming he was from Zanarkand, I had to see for myself."

"…O-_kay_." said Jecht with obvious confusion. The priest had called him a man from Zanarkand, as though it was a rarity, as though he was the only one left. He decided against following up, because he did not have to explain himself to anyone, especially not a bunch of primates from the sticks. He was the man; being stuck in losersville didn't change that. That monster had clearly just transported him somehow to the other side of the world, to places that he did not know and frankly did not care existed. Even still, he hadn't the first clue where he was. This 'Bevelle' certainly did not ring any bells. Come to think of it, it was so strange that Zanarkand could be so secluded and so brilliantly self-sufficient that it did not even recognise the other towns in Spira. It was something that Jecht had not lent any thought to before, nor was he particularly bothered now, because he missed Zanarkand so much that anything else was meaningless.

"Zanarkand… the city that never sleeps." The summoner enthused, almost dreamily. But Jecht continued to absent-mindedly consume amidst the summoner's ramblings. Braska leaned in, chin propped on his fist. "What's it _like_, Jecht?"

The Blitzer gave him another confused and even irritated look. "Big."

"There must be more than that, Jecht. Bevelle is big."

"No, Bevelle's _tall_. _Zanarkand_ is big." He chomped down again on the chicken wing, its crunchy crackling giving way to soft, white flesh beneath.

"You know, you should eat a little slower."

Jecht poked the decimated wing towards Braska in some annoyance. "Hey, don't tell someone from Zanarkand how to eat. Just because you guys eat insects or wood or whatever it is you eat here. In Zanarkand, when we eat, we eat right."

He took a couple of dry attempts to swallow before slamming a fist to the centre of his chest. Looking relieved, he followed this with a huge draught from the tankard that seemingly finished it off. Easing back into his wooden seat, he allowed his gut to ease out. Braska noticed that he looked nearly breathless, as though the meal had taken a lot out of him.

"You gonna drink that?"

Braska looked down at his untouched ale and shook his head. Jecht swooped, claiming the mug and sinking it in one attempt. It was real eye-opener for Braska, who just watched in silent amazement. A star Blitzball athlete who could also drink everyone he knew under the table?

"So, where to now?" asked Jecht as he swilled the stuck pieces of chicken with what beer remained in his mouth.

"There are a couple of goodbyes, and then we leave before next sunrise."

Jecht only now remembered that Auron was actually present, stood aloof at the entrance to the restaurant. "Oh, still with us, I see. Good of you to show up."

Auron threw the Blitzer a stony glare before turning away, arms folded across his chest.

"I'm just messin' with ya, Auron. Tell me, in your expert opinion, what do you think of my new sword?"

Jecht held it aloft: It was a very bulky broadsword, as wide as Jecht's chest in places, made from a dark and sturdy iron. There was a hook at the end of the sword, similar to that of an anchor. It was primarily for cutting with its sharp edge, but also for catching other blades in the tines. It had a T-shaped handle made from an expensive looking ivory and along the flat of the sword was a sun fire red pattern that vaguely resembled three aquatic mammals -possibly dolphins, each one shrinking further down the sword. It matched the designs of the orange sash around Jecht's waist, clearly painted or melted on painstakingly at his request, and at obvious extra cost. The guardian took the shortest of analytical observations before dismissively stating, "It's too heavy for you."

"Hah, says you. I can handle it."

The guardian impatiently spun to face Jecht, his boots scuffing on the tiled floor. "Remember, this is Lord Braska's coin you are flagrantly spending. Don't waste it on things that aren't necessary, just to satisfy your over-inflated ego."

"Ah, cram it, would ya?" The Blitzer uttered, just quiet enough so that nobody would hear.


	4. Farewell

IV

_Farewell_

Braska's guardian felt a swirl of emotions as he spoke possibly for the last time with his old friend, Wen Kinoc. There were the obvious emotions: sadness, doubt, and nostalgia… but darker sentiments simmered beneath the surface: betrayal, bitterness, even envy… though the man called Auron would be ashamed to admit it.

He blinked meticulously, as to capture one last mental still of his old partner in combat. Even now, he was dressed in his Warrior Monk garments, long after normal hours. He should have been home, tending to a wife, a baby daughter perhaps, even a dog. But no, the ever-hungry, ever-ambitious Kinoc was still in the barracks, finishing off whatever paperwork remained of an evening. He was no family man; he was a warrior and a protector, tied to the job and to Yevon. Auron was the same, though his loyalties to Yevon were somewhat unsound these days.

Looking at Kinoc was like looking at a past reflection. Apart from the auburn beard, he was a spitting image of Auron from less than a year ago: the same strong build, the same overpowering and even arrogant stance, the same steadfast and indoctrinated devotion to the system. Here, Braska's guardian realised that even now they weren't that dissimilar; they were both still guardians, fiercely protective of what they believed in. The only difference was that Auron had been cast out, and Kinoc had been lifted up onto the shoulders of his follow men.

Auron wanted to look into his friend's eyes for one last time but even that was denied him, as the latter was set to commence his evening watch and had donned his red visored helm. The Warrior Monk was also armoured with burgundy pauldrons, gauntlets and shin guards, some of the finest battle wear available in Spira and rightly so, considering they were the last line of defence for the three Maesters of Yevon. The 'Monk' part was apparent in what they wore beneath the armour: a short orange tunic festooned with Yevon scribe. It seemed that in death at the hands of the Warrior Monks, the 'Opposers of Yevon' were meant to see the error of their ways, the flaming retribution of a temple spurned.

Though the public face of the Warrior Monk Corps was that of protectors of the Palace of Saint Bevelle and of the Maesters, the sordid truth was that they often sought out and 'cleansed' those who did not follow the precepts, 'cleansings' in which Auron was now abashed to have conducted in his more subservient days. Yevon's official stance was to frown upon, but not physically intimidate or infringe upon non-believers; the truth could not have been more different. Auron's favourable reputation and his agreement not to preach what he knew was probably why he was still amongst the living.

"Thanks for everything, Kinoc."

The Warrior Monk smiled back at him. "I know I don't need to tell you this, but guard Lord Braska well."

"That, I will. And you'll be busy too. I heard they made you second-in-command."

Acid had sharpened the guardian's tongue to the point that his words stabbed at the heart of Kinoc. Auron was incredulous that he had been elevated so far so quickly.

"You know that promotion was meant for you." Kinoc sighed, his shoulders slumped in shame. "You were always the better one, even until the end."

_Until the end…_ again, Auron was made to feel that his lord's pilgrimage was nothing more than a church-sanctioned funeral procession, that he and Braska were marching towards certain death without a prayer of a chance. "You make it sound as if I was going off to die or something. I _will_ see you again."

"Yes."

But Kinoc's revelation ran along similar lines to Auron's thoughts. He was stronger, faster, more committed than Kinoc. He _was_ the better one. The snob buried not too deeply within hungered for those words, that he commanded respect, even now. But it was gone now, all in the time it took to say, "I do not".

Despite all that happened, Kinoc was still Auron's friend. They had saved each other's lives so many times they had lost count. Auron chastised himself for feeling this way, that he had been stabbed in the back by someone who technically had done nothing wrong, certainly not something he wouldn't have done had the shoe been on the other foot.

The silence between them was painful. It spoke of an intimate trust that was no longer there, that had become untenable. The two men were exposed with each other, no longer able to hide behind the wordless fire of combat or the transparent notion of camaraderie. They were two war mates who had walked side-by-side on the same path for years, who had experienced the greatness and the darkness of humanity together, but now found themselves slowly drifting away at the fork in the road.

"Well, then…"

"Going already?" Kinoc asked wistfully, frustrated that it had all passed them both so fast, and that it had to finish on such a sour note. "You will tell me about Zanarkand when you return, won't you?"

_Zanarkand._ Auron chuckled wryly thinking once more about the path that he could have followed and the one he was now destined to walk, maybe even until his dying day. He turned away and heaved his Katana over his shoulder, ready to face the world.

"Farewell."

It was a word charged with feeling, the heavy, emotional resonance in his voice summarising all that they had achieved. He was saying farewell to not only his friend, but also the hopes and plans he had nurtured since before he could remember them. This was truly the end of Auron, famous Warrior Monk of Bevelle and the start of someone else.

The guardian took a last look at Kinoc's face and then walked out of his life. Kinoc approached the sphere camera that had recorded the event and switched it off, not convinced he could bare to ever watch a replay. He waited until he was certain Auron was gone before slumping dejectedly into his chair and filling a huge tumbler with Whisky.

* * *

The brandy in the glass sloshed at the insides as Braska idly whirled his wrist. He raised it to his lips and drew a small mouthful, allowing the liquid to settle on his tongue. It eased down his throat and he waited for the fire to spread to his heart and back out to the rest of his body. 

He wasn't a drinker by nature, but then, speaking to one's daughter for the last time wasn't an everyday occurrence. He damned time for slipping through his fingers so easily. He damned himself for not making the most of it, taking it for granted. All he could do was count the hours, the minutes, the seconds. Her smiling face made it so much worse.

Half Bevellian, half Al Bhed… the outcome was not an anomaly at birth; Little Yuna's one blue eye and the other green, obscured by a long mop of brunette hair, spoke subtle volumes about her lineage. She was playing with her dolls, her energy boundless despite the early hour of the morning. One was of Lord Zaon, proud noble warrior of Zanarkand. Of course his tough, metallic armour was made of dyed blue cotton, and his jagged golden helm also of a soft material. The other doll was of his lover, Yunalesca, garbed in a graceful emerald dress, embellished in the scribe of Yevon. She was the first summoner to defeat Sin, roughly a millennium past. The history books revealed that together, the lovers made the ultimate sacrifice to defeat the monster, and their forfeit made them that much more revered. They gave Sin their body and souls, so that life could continue, so that he could start his own journey. The two were so pure, so much in the wholesome image of Yevon, and he was asking himself to go into the same chapter of the history books as them, a heathen. It would make a mockery of the pilgrimage. _Good._

Yuna brought the dolls together and pulled them apart every so often, shook them intermittently. She muttered sweet nothings like, "Together, we can beat Sin," "Our love is strong," and "We can bring the Eternal Calm."

She was too innocent to be caught up in all this. She deserved a normal life, with two loving parents. This world was not for her. She deserved to see Zanarkand.

Braska broke away to get a good last look of the room. He had many fine memories of the old girl as well, too many to waste time with in the dwindling minutes he had left. His wife Jenni loved to curl up on the sofa with him at night, a sofa that was far too big nowadays. Slivers of early morning sun from outside of his window cut into the gloomy lounge, forming prisms of light where the dust mites danced freely. In the back were a pantry and a bathroom, all in all completing the modest layout of the house. It was one of many on his block, peering out onto the deserted southern market.

Yuna had now become occupied with the visitor kneeling down in front of her. Braska smiled at the amusing Jecht, his wide spread gestures painting a hundred words, of days gone by. It appeared he was explaining Blitzball to her and what it meant in Zanarkand, from the rounded shapes his hands formed, to the flat palms held out far and wide, as to demonstrate the heaving stands. Jecht then tried to shape the stadium and his hands struck back and forth, fingertips spattering in an attempt to light up the illusion he had created. Yuna was enraptured by the stranger, her focus completely on him and nothing else. The summoner hoped to be equally charmed by his tales of the great city.

From behind the armchair that Braska had eased into, Auron leaned over his shoulder, his mouth placed strategically near the summoner's ear.

"What are your plans, milord?" he whispered.

"The priests are collecting her in a half hour."

"Is that enough time, sir?"

_Time_… always coming back to that unsympathetic, endless river. Braska could hear Auron, but refused to draw his stare away from his little girl. With obvious resignation, he said, "It will have to be enough."

Auron was discomfited, but touched Braska's shoulder out of solidarity. His lord was the strongest man he knew, but this must have been overwhelming for him. With a compassionate, but rather gauche tap of his gloved hand, Auron turned away and begin to stare uselessly out of a window. And so, Braska was left to retain his silent, but intense focus on his daughter. She looked away from Jecht momentarily and up at her father. There was a toothy, happy, oblivious smile for him. Braska returned it with a quivering, fearful smile of his own. As soon as she returned to Jecht, the summoner allowed his head to droop into his chest. His fingernails digging hard into the arms of his chair, the summoner cut the loneliest figure in the room. He moaned inaudibly, yearning for the times that were no more.

* * *

Dawn tumbled towards the city to dispel the dark and cast the red clay in its light. It was the start of a new day and a new attempt against the reign of Sin. The summoner Braska allowed the swiftly breaking sun to bathe him, its intensity enough to make him squint. 

Watching the summoner's back as ever was his guardian, and behind him, the latest addition to the party. Jecht truly was a walking miracle, so unlike anyone he or anyone in Spira had ever seen. He was, or at least he truly believed he was from Zanarkand, a paradise free from Sin. Many had tried fruitlessly to find such a safe haven.

The Blitzer had amassed a fair crowd in the courtyard of the orphanage as he demonstrated his trademark manoeuvre to Yuna. "The Sublimely Magnificent Jecht Shot Mark Three" he called it, somewhat ornately. Though he had no ball, Jecht showed her anyway, leaping from pillar to post, corkscrewing impossibly in the air. It was a spectacle if nothing else and the priests certainly did not enjoy it. But Braska did. Jecht had also given the summoner's daughter a couple of dolls for her collection: the red lion-like Moomba and the friendly blue alien PuPu, figures from a famous bedtime tale. Auron had distanced himself from such sentiment but then, Braska expected him to. It was a wonderful gesture by the man from the Zanarkand, and the summoner had displayed his appreciation with the prayer of Yevon and an honoured smile. Braska wondered if he had offspring of his own in Zanarkand and considered how lucky they were to have such a great dad.

Fiddling around with his new toys, Jecht had the look of a contented child about him, having stocked up significantly before leaving Bevelle. With a generous chunk of what remained in Braska's fancy purse, he had purchased an armguard for the battles ahead. It consisted of a black sleeve that covered his entire left arm, scaled with uncompromising steel. Auron had dismissed it as 'peasant' armour, but Jecht thought it was pretty cool. He had also bought a sphere camera along for the trip and a litre of Bevellian mead.

"What are you taking?" Auron asked him, monitoring the fool's every action like a hawk.

"Well, you said it was going to be a long trip. We'll be seein' a lot of neat things, right? So, I thought I'd record it all, in this."

The device was a simple ovular thing, with three buttons inscribed with Spiran lettering, and a smooth lens at the front. Jecht had seen these back home but never saw the use in them until now. Incredible to think they could crystallise memories in the form of spheres. He showed the camera to Auron and anger resurfaced in the guardian's eyes.

"To show my wife and kid, you know." Jecht trailed off.

"This is no pleasure cruise!"

Auron seethed, frustrated at being unable to mould this childish ingrate into the shape of a respectful and earnest guardian. He stamped his boot down to the tiled floor and stormed away. Jecht smirked at this latest development. Initially, he just thought Auron was one of those overly protective types, probably a closet homo too. But it did seem that Braska's guardian just simply disliked him. He wondered why. _Was the clown jealous? Because his master had spurned his wishes by bailing Jecht out of prison?_ The Blitzer knew his very existence was goading Auron and in truth he enjoyed it, even thrived on it. The moron deserved it for being such a tight-ass.

"Hey, Braska. Ain't this supposed to be a grand occasion? Where're the cheerin' fans, the cryin' women?"

"This is it."

Braska stopped suddenly, as though bumping into an unseen pane of glass. He shook his head. That parting memory with Yuna still lingered two hundred yards behind him. He could relive it, bring it close to him, if only he would turn round and look… if he would turn back. _No_. Retreat was no longer an option, just as much as time could not be reversed.

"Too many goodbyes… People think twice about leaving."

It was a bald-faced lie. There were no goodbyes for a fallen summoner. The gates of Bevelle had slammed shut behind him and he was nobody, like the wandering merchants or vagrants. Why leave at such a strange time as just before dawn, if not to slip away like an unwanted memory?

"Hmm…" Jecht pondered Braska's words for a moment, half-baked notions threatening to stimulate his detective skills. "If you say so." he continued, not bothered to pursue it, "Well, it better be a lot more colourful when we come back. A parade for Braska, vanquisher of Sin!"

Braska giggled, but soon realised the incredulity of seeing any such spectacle. The gleaming spread of the new morning began to slowly control the sky. "We should go. Day will break soon."

The summoner took a final respectful glance back towards Bevelle, his hometown, and performed the prayer of Yevon before heading south to the frosty climes of Macalania.


	5. Initiation

V

_Initiation_

The sound of singing glass resonated through Macalania Forest. It vibrated through the woods' abundant natural crystals, absorbing their strength and spawning a chorus of angelic voices. There was something illusory about the place, as though the pyreflies overhead were charging it with their mystical energy and keeping it alive.

"Wow, this sure is a big, blue forest!" Jecht pointed out, somewhat understatedly. "Ain't never been in woods like this before, 'cept in books. That is, if you don't count last night of course, when I was wasted. Thought it was a dream or somethin'."

"Do you not have woods like this in your Zanarkand?" asked an intrigued Braska. Jecht scratched the back of his neck. "Nah, just big shiny buildings, as far as you can see…"

He looked up at the cratered golden arc that shimmered as he watched, and then around at the leaves, the bark and the soil that was compacted so tightly it became a bed of tiny diamonds. He tried to identify with it from past experience but only could draw a blank.

"Hmm, come to think of it, this is the first forest I've actually been in." he muttered beneath his breath.

The grand old trees were gnarled with age and weight, coated in a viscous blue resin. It was soft to the touch, leaving an imprint of Jecht's hand behind for a moment. The goo was strange in that it radiated and reflected light around the forest. Seeing as the entire area was caked in the stuff, there was a lot of light being built up beyond the sun's natural rays. Day had not even broken, yet every nuance of the woods was exposed for all to see.

Even more bizarre than this was that the gargantuan branches of the trees twined up, down and around, forming intricate routes for the passers by to traverse safely. Was this a natural formation that had evolved over time, or had these paths been cultivated specifically for the benefit of its journeyers?

Jecht wandered over to a nearby tree and eased his hand across a huge sprouting flower. Even the blossoms of the forest bared more of that gelatinous fruit. Staring into the centre of the flower was like staring directly at the sun; just a glimpse was enough to burn a green blur across his retinas. It was all so mystifying. Whereas Braska and Auron had walked through the woods countless times, this was a whole new experience for Jecht. There was nothing like it back in Zanarkand, yet he was expected to not be overawed by it, because he was from the city that never slept; he had an image to maintain.

"You don't mind if I get a shot of this place, do you?" Auron's tired expression indicated his disapproval. "Oh, come on man, it'll be great for the ball-and-chain."

"No, we don't have time for that."

"On the way back, Jecht." Braska said, like a compromising mother.

"So, what's the story behind this place?"

"This is Macalania Forest." Braska replied promptly. "These woods are the crossroads between Bevelle, the Lake, the Thunder Plains and the Calm Lands."

"The where and the what-what?"

The summoner permitted himself a polite smirk at Jecht's naivety. "It's no surprise that you have never been to these humble places, not when you have Zanarkand. The crystals and the spheres you see here are only indigenous to these woods and a few other places, where pyreflies are plenty. That's what makes it so special. It is a blessing from Yevon."

Braska straightened one knee behind him and bent the other at a right angle, lowering his body. His outstretched arms moved inwards and his hands cupped into a globe shape, with his right hand at the top and his left at the base. Finally he bowed his head and ingested a huge nasal breath, absorbing the crisp, dry smells of the forest. Again, there was the Blitzball celebration, even down to the shape of the ball and the respectful nod of the head. Only in this Spira, it seemed to be a thankful salute to that Yevon character.

"So uh, Braska. This Sin thingy, you want to tell me a little more about that?"

Auron suppressed a snicker. "Have you been living in a bubble for the last thousand years, Jecht? Or maybe you enjoy a life free of Sin in your Zanarkand somehow?" He paused, gauging Jecht's response. "Sin is a fiend, with the power to destroy towns and wipe out communities with a single blow. It is the bane of our world."

Jecht folded his arms across his chest, not sure whether to be impressed or not by Auron's strong words. "You ever seen it?" he asked with notable cynicism.

"It has attacked Bevelle in the past." Auron's replied matter-of-factly. "Combined with the great Sacred Beast Evrae and the Warrior Monks, we have been able to repel the beast enough times to ward it away from the city permanently, it would seem. Not all towns are so well protected, however."

Braska's mouth worked silently for a moment, trying to follow up with words that would do Sin justice. "If Sin has not claimed one of your loved ones, then you are blessed indeed. Spira is too terrified to advance in its presence. No one thinks about tomorrow, because there may not be one. _Hah._ It seems like only yesterday that I wore the clothes of a family man. But now… but now, I wear the robes of a summoner. So I guess that's what I am."

He moved to point silently, ending the conversation. Jecht let go a low, rumbling grunt of dissatisfaction, but allowed Braska to move on. Even Spira's more cheerful characters seemed to have a dark, sorrowed streak running through them. He could forgive the world for producing an ass like Auron, but he really thought Braska and he were on the same page. Maybe they still were. After all, a man couldn't change the past as much as he couldn't pretend it had never happened. Jecht was not the sharpest stick in the bundle, but he knew pain in someone's voice when he heard it. It was obvious that Braska had lost at the hands of this 'Sin'.

"Well, if it doesn't kill you it can only make you stronger, right?" Jecht turned to Auron, who was clearly nonplussed by the outlander's words. "It's a saying back in Zanarkand. As long as you're alive, huh?"

Auron's face slowly developed a look of contempt so complete that it surpassed even the acidity in his voice. "You really are clueless."

Jecht stooped low and shook his head, allowing his arms to sag at knee level. "What I say now?" He then started to lightly jog as to not be left behind.

As he caught up to the two men, he was met by the sight of something he had not seen in a long time: a fiend. It stood on two legs and had an extremely low centre of gravity. It looked like some kind of large mollusc, its jagged shell tinted blue. With a broken cackle, the fiend Mulfushu took an offensive stance, slobber oozing from its serrated crack of a mouth.

"Whoa! What is that thing?"

"The first catch of the day."

Auron raised the Katana up to his face so that he could map his eye along the cool surface. The sword was a thing of simplistic beauty, curving into a thin gentle tip. It was a hefty blade though that required the use of two hands, clearly suited to the sculpted arms and shoulders of a fighter like Auron. It was designed for intermediate students and warriors of advanced knowledge, with no obvious hand guard to catch the weapon of an enemy. The skill in the weapon was that one could only really parry an attack with the back of the blade. The bulk of the sword would then allow for a swift, powerful counter strike, if one had the physical frame to wield it efficiently.

With consummate skill and knowledge of the blade's balance, Auron made light work of flinging the Katana over his right shoulder so that it arced across his back. He spread his legs far apart and lowered his body, preparing to strike.

"No way, hotshot! This one's mine!" Jecht cut in, barging to the front.

"Hmph, if you say so." Auron played with the idea of the new guy getting his hands dirty and backed away. "You might want to use this, though. Catch!"

The guardian flung a spare sword he had been carrying high into the air. Jecht caught sight of it at the peak of its flight by the glare emitted from its edge. For a moment, he was taken back to the heat of a good Blitz match. He imagined a killer pass from Lakkum or Tordi and just like in the Blitz Sphere, time seemed to slow down around him. Only he and the spinning blade existed. With a nonchalant shimmy of the wrist, he caught the sword and brought it gracefully under his control. He enjoyed the reassuring sensation of the hilt in his hand and the cool steel on his fingertips as he playfully snaked them along the sharp edge. The flat of the blade was a specially treated purple metal, while the edge was traditional silver steel. It started thin at the base but widened significantly to form a quite rounded tip with a long hook running back towards the handle, designed to catch opponents' weapons.

But this substitute sword simply lacked the grandeur of the weapon he had brought back in Bevelle and with a disapproving look at Auron's sword, he threw it back to the guardian. The man from Zanarkand exposed his sword and brought it down to his side, fingers locked obsessively tight around the hilt. Auron noted the mistake. It was important to relax in combat and relieve the tension in one's arms and body, to allow the strike to ripple from the back, through the shoulders and arms and finally into the wrists and fingers. One had to be like water, flowing in time with the enemy's movements.

Jecht charged into the fiend and spun a full circle on the pads of his feet, allowing the blade to follow through on the double forehand. It struck the fiend on its hard, scaly husk and the damage caused was minimal. Just as Auron had warned him, the sword was too heavy for a beginner such as Jecht. He was overcompensating for the weight of the blade and it inevitably resulted in a loss of balance. Mulfushu retaliated by barging into Jecht's stumbling body, sending him crashing to the earth with ease. Auron chortled to himself triumphantly, satisfied the city boy had learned his first lesson about real combat.

"This one's too tough for you, _novice_. Leave it to someone with a little more battle experience."

Auron slowly lowered his Katana so that it ran parallel to his hip, the blade trailing behind him. With a smooth flow of thought into action, Braska's guardian shimmied forward and brought the blade up from underneath Mulfushu before it had time to register the attack. The steel rended the soft flesh of the fiend's belly, sending a jet of blood spraying across Auron's face.

The Mulfushu twitched and moaned on its back for a moment and then faded into a steady stream of pyreflies. It was the haunting sound of spirits crying out, or of young children. The lights washed over Auron on their way into the sky. Even the blood matted in his hair faded away as though it had never been.

A deeply disgruntled Jecht seethed to himself. "I could've done that."

"We're not finished here just yet, gentlemen." The summoner pointed out to his two colleagues, as another fiend entered the fray. It was utterly different from Mulfushu: a formation of small yellow rocks, held together in a cross shape by electricital forces.

"This is an elemental fiend." Braska explained as he twirled his summoning staff in front of him. "Your blades will have little effect on this one. But with my powers of black magic, I can hurt it."

"_Elemental_? _Magic_?"

"As you can tell, this fiend is controlled by electricity. Hence, if I attack it with magic from its opposing element, it will die quickly. Let's hope it's thirsty."

Exploiting his uncanny control of the pyreflies around him, the summoner encased the fiend in a bubble of water, causing it to explode in a shower of electrical sparks. Jecht threw his arm across his eyes and when he looked back, there was nothing left but the glistening embers of the pyreflies from the fiend's corpse.

"Whoa…"

Braska was not just some goofy priest, after all.

* * *

The travellers had set up camp at roughly midday for a short break. Braska and Auron went through their backpacks, planning their rations carefully, while Jecht immediately took a nap. He dreamt that afternoon, of the city he had left behind and of the 'incident' that had brought about his coming to the backwaters of Spira. 

After the beast had struck and forced him down to the sandy bed of the wharf, he had floated semi-conscious back to the surface. And things looked different upon his return. The world began to knit itself back together, pyreflies working frantically to heal the rift caused by the monster. Concrete and glass shards slowly peeled away from the sidewalks and reattached to the buildings until they were complete once more. The dead rose again and started to walk around as though nothing had happened. But Jecht remembered them dying, crushed under debris, screaming out to family members that weren't there. And there was so much blood. How was this possible? The beast cradled him in its open mouth long enough for Jecht to get a good look at the deceit being weaved and then undone before him. It was too much for him to take. All rational sense had been ripped to tatters before his eyes. The beast was mocking him by keeping him alive inside its mouth, this theatre in which Jecht could clinically observe his own reality crumbling.

Then, the violently bright images of death rewinding vanished into a shrinking slit until eventually, complete darkness fell and the bowels of evil rumbled from behind him.


	6. Spiralling Down

VI

_Spiralling Down_

The three pilgrims finally reached eyeshot of their itinerary late in the afternoon, with the sun long past its peak, squeezing against the frozen hills and spreading a thin layer of fire across the toothed horizon. Gnarled fingers erupted from the snow laden mounds, styled over centuries by the gruelling winds that rolled down from the mountain. It was a barren land indeed, the corpses of fools claimed by the ice, and the whisper of pyreflies softly emerging from the gale's pained howl, remnants of those who could not leave this place.

"Auron, could you stand closer to him?"

The bellowed instruction came from behind the sphere camera. Barely able to contain his displeasure, Braska's guardian sighed and edged slightly closer towards Jecht. Braska adjusted the zoom so that the lettering of the Lake Macalania sign above the Travel Agency came into the frame. "Good. That should do it."

"What's the matter, afraid I might bite?"

Auron clenched his teeth so hard they could crack. He managed to level himself and utter Jecht's name with a strangled frustration.

The Travel Agencies were dotted all across Spira and mainly in the most inhospitable lands. They were designed by a traveller for travellers. The proprietor Rin, an ambitious young Al Bhed, had spent his young life scouring the globe with his father, doing odd jobs for various peoples, until he had stashed enough Gil to start up a business. Now, he leapt between the four corners of Spira just to ensure his assistants were helping it all go smoothly. The design of the Agencies embedded deep into the roots of Rin's family. His father Ron was an architect, as was his father Ren, no doubt inspired by the illustrious history of the great Al Bhed designers, their legacy now left in tatters all across Spira by Sin. Rin was the first to buck the trend by entering the entrepreneur game. Still, he had hired the best Al Bhed builders to erect the agencies from his forefathers' scrolls. They were rounded huts, garnished with colourful sashes and banners jutting from the top. The written Al Bhed was even more confusing than the spoken word to anyone short of a master, or 'Sycdan'. A fancy 'famlusa' sign hung over the doorway, so garishly green it hurt to look at it.

The colours and the unusual patterns gave Braska that warm feeling of home. Not of Bevelle, but of his wife. Whenever he encountered the exotic Al Bhed culture, he couldn't help but think of her, the recollection magnificent and unbearable at the same time. He adjusted the zoom on the sphere camera to ensure the whole of the building was captured and held the shot for a long moment.

"Braska! You should take one, too. It'd make a great gift for little Yuna!"

The camera sunk in the summoner's faltering hands for a moment. He entertained Jecht with a subdued, "I suppose."

"Lord Braska, we shouldn't be wasting our time like this!" yelled Auron, bludgeoning any sensitive thoughts Braska may have had.

"What's the hurry, man?"

Jecht got nothing from the guardian and grunted in annoyance before walking away. Like a kettle that had just about overflowed with scolding wrath, Auron stormed after him. "Let me tell you what the hurry is!"

He was so incensed he didn't hear his lord call after him. "You've done nothing but belittle this pilgrimage, all of it. Only thanks to Lord Braska have you your freedom!"

"Hey man, get that stick out of your ass before it kills ya."

The words were bubbling under with a physical threat and it brought out the warrior in Auron. He suddenly jolted with that same tingle of anticipation he felt whenever war erupted. Only this was more personal, the edge was that much sharper. Auron got up into Jecht's face, going nose to nose with him. Jecht knew that his counterpart was a skilled fighter and a scrap may not have been in his best interests. Regardless, he refused to yield and uttered the words, "Do somethin'."

They took the wind right out of Auron's sails. It was now his move but he was more comfortable in retaliation than initiation. His eyes twitched and he flicked his tongue across his chapped lips, trying to focus his energy somewhere, anywhere but his fists. But Jecht wouldn't budge, keeping the eyes on Auron, keeping his heart rate low. It was a penalty shot, Auron was the goalkeeper and Jecht had never missed in his career. The guardian backed down.

"Hmph. You're not worth it." The words were hot and menacing beneath his breath.

A couple of measured steps backwards later and Auron swung round into a furious stride, flinging open the agency door so hard it cracked against the inside wall and slammed shut behind him.

"What's _with_ that guy?"

"Never mind him… he can just be a little over protective. Sometimes I don't understand him either."

* * *

The inside of the travel agency was quite a sight, like a testament to the Al Bhed culture, imploded into one room. There was nothing sacrilegious to Yevon there, either. Rin was an intelligent young man, whose business appealed to all travellers, regardless of their disposition.

There was a bear skin rug near the door, its fur white and warm, absorbing the golden glow from the furnace in the corner of the room. Like the tiles underfoot, the wallpaper was of an ocean blue, as though to take the travellers' minds away from the cold and to the tropical waters of places like Besaid or Kilika.

"Welcome to Rin's." beckoned the young lady attendant. "How may I be of service?"

"Whisky, straight up. Fast."

She was taken aback by Jecht momentarily, but nervously rummaged beneath the counter and revealed a dusty liquor bottle. "Just say when."

She poured, and poured… and poured. Approaching the top of the tumbler, Jecht indicated for her to stop. He raised the glass to his nose, savoured the mature smell and then threw it down the hatch.

"Hmm, gets you right there." He said through a grimace, before sliding a couple of coins across the bar.

"A little early in the day for that, eh?"

The voice was wizened and jaded, befitting of the man who owned it. He was a short, withered old prune with a mussed grey beard, his beady eyes peering over rounded spectacles. He wore a towering green hat complete with ear mufflers, and a jacket with cape that was buttoned up to hide his trousers. Chasing at the tails of his cape were his well-travelled boots, a slushy mixture of snow and mud congealed on the soles.

"Ah, forgive me. My name is Maechen, a scholar. On a quest, I am, one that never ends. I am travelling the world, amassing knowledge and stories and secrets."

He adjusted his glasses and took a seat. "These travel agencies are rather handy to the likes of myself, and to a summoner's entourage. Perhaps you'd like to hear a story."

"Hell, no."

"Pity."

"Now, now Jecht." Said Braska. "My apologies, Maechen. Do go on."

Jecht shook his head as Braska agreed to let the old man gas on. And gas he did, explaining to them all that one could ever want to know about Lake Macalania. Something about the ice being permanent all year round, even in the toils of summer. The old scholar explained the theory that it was the Fayth from the nearby temple that was responsible for this inexplicable phenomenon. He had chattered for so long that Jecht had polished off a further couple of shots from the whisky bottle.

"Ah, but I'm sure the Al Bhed would have a different take on the whole matter…"

Jecht perked up. Just about the only interesting common conversation from his short stay in Bevelle was of this race, the Al Bhed. Braska mentioned something about his wife being one, too. "Uh, Al Bhed? Who are they?"

Maechen and Braska exchanged embarrassed glances.

"Uh, I got too close to Sin, and…"

"The toxin? You are a lucky one indeed that you still live."

"Yeah, I get that a lot. Well?"

"Sorry?"

"The Al Bhed, old man!"

"Oh, of course… the Al Bhed. The Al Bhed have been rebuked by Yevon since recorded history began. They freely utilise the forbidden machina that Yevon states brought about Sin in the first place. However, they feel that the summoners cannot truly vanquish Sin and that if it weren't for the tight stranglehold that the Yevon precepts have on Spira, we may have killed Sin by alternative means by now.

"You can recognise an Al Bhed from a Yevonite by the goggles they often wear to conceal their swirly green eyes, and their blonde hair, which is also common. And of course their disregard for Yevon often reflects in their outlandish attire. Leather, rubber… they push the boundaries in more ways than one."

Jecht was certain the old man let go of a stifled moan under his breath, but he may have imagined it.

"And that, as they say, is that."

Maechen clambered to a standing position and shuffled over to the corridor at the end of the room that led to the bedrooms.

After freshening up and replenishing their dwindling inventory, the three pilgrims soon headed out to the temple via a hostile crevasse that proved tremendously awkward to negate on foot. Auron took point alone, while Jecht hung back with Braska nearby. Peering down through the lucent ice, they could make out the submerged temple of Macalania, spiralling further and further down into the cold, murky depths. Fables spoke of dark secrets hidden there: powerful fiends frozen for a hundred years, cities and peoples lost in a frosty grip.

Jecht noticed Auron was pulling away pretty aggressively, probably still pissed from their encounter outside the agency. He was struggling to keep the guardian near whilst negotiating all the tricky twists and turns, and ensuring the safety of the summoner.

Auron approached the temple's entrance a good ten seconds before the others. Braska shuffled past him to get a good look at the entry that beckoned them. There was a doorway which showed only darkness within, whatever inside was impossible to make out. Beneath a flapping beige canopy were a couple of torches bearing a unique blue flame. The summoner had a strange urge to pass his hand over the top of the fire. There was no burning sensation, but Braska did instinctively pull his hand away. The pain was cold, leaving frostbite in his palm. _Ah, the mysteries of the Fayth…_

They descended into the cavern that housed the temple and it was a glorious sight. It was a vast space, with a drop of several hundred feet into the icy waters below if one wandered off the thin, winding path. The crisp air blasted its way into one's lungs so hard it hurt. This place was pure and enchanting. The temple itself bled with colour, a flurry of lavender, gold and sapphire, hanging from a frozen ceiling like a man-made icicle. In truth, there were numerous trunks that held it in place, cemented by surrounding ice, almost as if the temple was a natural extension of the trees, if they could survive in such a climate. The temple had been erected countless centuries ago by Guado draughtsmen and many would believe shaped into its current form by the Fayth. The ice was permanent, even enduring through the hottest summer seasons. Only the mysterious Fayth could bend the laws of nature to their will in such a way.

Jecht beheld it all and had only one word to describe it. "Cool."

"Quite chilly, I'd say." Braska added. "Let's proceed before we freeze to death."

Braska shuffled onwards in his usual polite manner, while Auron walked with a sense of duty and purpose, never allowing his lord to be more than two steps ahead. This left Jecht to move quite hesitantly down the slippery path to the temple. When he focused his steps, he realised how cold he was as his bare feet made measured contact with the ground. He rolled his vest back up and frantically rubbed warmth back into his arms.

"Ah, you are the fallen summoner Braska, correct?" was the coarse, cynical question.

Braska swallowed hard past the Guado's blatant scepticism and nodded silently.

"And your entourage?"

Jecht took a staggered backwards step when he met the Guado at the temple entrance. It was unlike anything he had ever seen, like a human tree, his wild hair whipping hither and thither like kindling, embedding and rooting into his scalp. His long, delicate fingers had the appearance of branches, too. But if this Guado was a human tree, then he must have clocked up quite a few rings on the inside, with a tired hunch and crow's feet pulling his eyes into thin puffy slits.

Braska introduced the party. "This is my guardian Auron and this…" He mulled over his choice of words for a long moment. "This is my consultant, Jecht."

"Consultant? Well that's a new one. You may proceed, but your 'consultant' stays in the Great Hall."

Braska nodded reverently, resisting the urge to punch the patronising grin off the Guado's face and the pilgrims entered the main hall.

* * *

_Zanarkand: six years before…_

Jecht incessantly adjusted his silky designer tie, ensuring it was tight enough to be considered smart, but not so tight that it asphyxiated him. He popped open the top button of his shirt and let out a sigh of release. He hated this side of his job: dressing up, acting all genteel. It was a million miles from the sphere pool. However, it did buy his wife fancy dresses, so he couldn't complain. Ruffling down the creases in his silver jacket and matching pants, Jecht pressed on into the conference room.

He was met by a loud roar and an equally brilliant flash of camera bulbs, forcing him to shield his eyes from the dazzling blue. The blitzer firmly gripped the hand of the nameless bozo from the toy company and shook it once with enough whip to jolt the man's arm in his shoulder socket. With some discomfort, the executive –a balding man with coarse tufts of grey hair at the back of his head, thick-framed glasses and a gargoyle's face- adjusted his microphone.

Jecht flicked the taut area of flesh underneath his chin and realised that he had forgotten to shave that morning like they had told him to -not that he liked to shave anyway, or follow orders. Allowing his face to sink into his palm, he vacantly heard what the executive had to say.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're here today to celebrate a breakthrough in relations between Blitzball and Panino toys. This press conference is to unveil the first in what we hope will be many in the Jecht action figure line."

Whoops of delight rippled through the crowd of journalists amassed in the gloomy seating area just beyond Jecht's vision. He squinted and braved the glare of the spotlights overhead. It was always the same. The spotlights were on him all the time, even in these crappy conferences. He couldn't escape.

"The Jecht action figure is fully customisable. It comes with three outfits: his traditional sunset leggings / vest combination, to his silver suit combination as he graciously models for us today, and a training kit that consists of a tank top and blue tracksuit pants. You'll see the real Jecht modelling these garments at upcoming public training sessions."

The executive proceeded to explain the wonders of this twelve-inch piece of plastic that bared only a mild resemblance to Jecht. There was a spring action in the right leg, which allowed one in essence to 'volley' the foam blitzball that came with it, on the proviso that one had good enough timing and coordination. The doll even had manageable hair that, with a supplemental styling cream, could be shaped anyway the child wished. _It was all so smashing_, Jecht pondered ironically, thinking only of the transaction into his bank account.

He idly scooped up the empty figurine box some minutes into the suit's long-winded explanation. His eyes slowly danced over the instructions until he read something he found personally offensive at the bottom of the package.

"Psst." He murmured over to the executive, who broke away from his speech. "Let's get one thing straight: my parts ain't _small_... Who writes this crap?"

However, he failed to realise his mike was on too and his comment reverberated through the amplifiers all around the room. The words brought gushes of laughter from the media, taking Jecht's comment as an ingenious way of alleviating the tedium. Realising the favourable response, Jecht drew a slow but ever broadening grin and gave a little wave. He whistled an inaudible sigh of relief after the commotion settled and the ultra-professional representative continued, evidently annoyed the blitzer had unsettled his rhythm.

The conference was wrapped up within an hour, legal wrangling and superfluous questions from the floor drawing it out far longer than it had to. The questions were predictably aimed at Jecht. The fact that a new figurine had been unveiled was coincidental; it was the _man_ they had come to see. A pretty young thing representing the Zanarkand Gazette called most vigorously. When she caught Jecht's attention, she batted her eyelids and pouted a little, bringing an interested smirk from the blitzer.

"How's your son, Jecht? It's his birthday soon, isn't it?"

"He's great, as always. And yes, he is a year old on Fifth day. Even spoke his first words earlier on in the week."

The audience 'ahh-ed' in tandem. "What did he say?"

Jecht centred his attention to the whole room, but to himself more than anything. With a swell of pride and a huge smile, he spoke.

"Dada."


	7. Shimmers of the Past

VII

_Shimmers of the Past_

Jecht slept like a baby, with a gormless expression and an arm cocked over his eyes. Strewn across his body was a grey blanket that provided only minimal warmth. His loud, nasal snores gargled incessantly through the room, echoing and making him sound much louder than he really was. If one had the strange desire to peer into the chasm of his mouth, one would notice his tonsils swinging rhythmically back and forth. The snores became entangled and then halted abruptly; Jecht came to, back to the 'reality' that was Spira.

He had dozed off in one of the side rooms of Macalania temple, unable to resist the lure of a nap in a comfortable hammock. The Zanarkand native slept a lot, significantly more than most, in fact. He supposed that a great athlete such as himself needed his sleep, as the greater the consumption of energy, the greater the need to replenish it. However, it was also his body's way of siphoning out all the wilfully absorbed toxins.

The dream he had relived was of a memory so innocuous he had forgotten all about until then. His subconscious had cried out to him once again for some reason. Once again, he lent no thought to the matter whatsoever and rose to a standing position, tip-toeing to stretch the tension from his back and shoulders.

The side room was just as weird and wonderful as the main hall. Lining the circumference of the room were shelves adorning ointments, potions and scrolls. Jecht gathered they were for pilgrims like him, a charity service for the warriors who served Yevon.

A notched column of ice rended the room right down the spine. On closer inspection, Jecht realised it was actually the key structural point of the room, providing it with enough integrity to stay intact. He placed a palm on it and it was cold but dry, even when he applied the natural warmth of his hand to it. It bit into his palm quickly, so he pulled it away. Directly above, the roof was made of glass, providing him with a sprawling upward view of the temple and the icy ceiling beyond. It was so heavy with purple that Jecht thought it could collapse on him if he kept staring.

He wandered out into the Great Hall: a stuffy old auditorium with that empty, hallowed feel to it. The floor had a rounded blue tile, as cold to touch with bare feet as it looked. At the base of a flight of stairs were two lamps on either side. From the troughs rose waves of sparkling purple flecks. In their eternal spiral, they ascended gracefully to their peaks, before inevitably falling and fading into nothing on the way down. Jecht dropped a couple of coins into the lamp to accompany the scant others. They dipped sharply in the lamp's water before freezing still near the base.

The predominant features of the hall were the statues. There were three of them, two either side of the staircase and one just off to the left. Jecht slowly panned his stare over each in turn.

The first looked like the captain of a ship, with a flat captain's hat and commanding, respected robes. Then there was a more traditional looking warlock, more like Jecht's preconceptions of a summoner. Though of a similar stature to the captain, this guy was more aggressive, with an open cape and illustrious beard offsetting a strong jaw. He looked like he could throw a few punches as well as summon… possibly an athlete.

Finally, there was a woman, probably the most physically capable of the lot. For a start, she openly held a scimitar in her hand. Whereas the two males had exposed faces, this one wore a helm of some kind, with a visor that hid her eyes. Her face -though graceful and feminine, was coarse and worn, and not from the fact it was made from granite. The sculptors had put everything into these statues to ensure a certain effect was achieved. Whether the effect was historically accurate or not, Jecht couldn't say. He wondered what these guys did with themselves now, if one or more of them were still alive, spinning tales of the glory days from a creaking old rocking chair.

Up the flight of stairs were two more facing statues that moulded into the back wall. On the left was a rather scantily clad woman, and on the right, a swordsman, possibly lovers or comrades at the least. They looked more important than the three grounded statues, who looked more like subordinates or cohorts.

It was early morning now and his party was the only one awaiting the blessing of Shiva, the aeon of ice. Everyone else had packed up and moved onto the next stage, while Auron was pacing back and forth, worry etched into his face. Eventually, he settled down on a bottom step, chewing the cuticles of his thumb.

"It's been too long…" he whispered to himself. "Six hours… Why this feeling again?"

The guardian looked haggard, with purple bags formed under his eyes. His body language echoed fatigue and strain, and all he'd done was stand there and wait. Jecht could only speculate on what state Braska was in if this was what the waiting did to a man.

"So uh, is six hours a long time, normally?"

"…Not exactly." Auron sighed. "Some summoners have taken in excess of a day, surviving only on the rations in their backpacks. They come out… thinner, less of a person."

"But Braska's a tough cookie. He'll be out in no time, right?"

"…I'm sorry."

"_Huh_?"

"For my actions earlier on, outside the agency. I was… frustrated, and I tried to provoke you. Forgive me."

Auron's speech, though initially slow and considered, accelerated to a rapid, awkward finish. It had been rehearsed, and Auron had wanted to get it out in the open and far away as quickly as possible.

"_Heh._ Well, a rush of blood to the head happens to the best of us, kid."

Auron was unsure whether to feel grateful that Jecht had been relatively lenient, or feel condescended to. He had been wrong, but Jecht had no right to call him 'kid'. He had amassed more experience of combat and the world than Jecht could ever dream of.

"I still we think we should go in after him now, ya know!" Jecht demanded, vehemently swinging his hands around as to accentuate his claim.

"How many times, Jecht, _no_." Auron retorted slowly. "If a guardian enters the Chamber of the Fayth, it could result in excommunication of the summoner, let alone a severe reprimand for whoever interfered."

Auron's thoughts cannoned back to the tales of his teen years while ascending the ranks of the Warrior Monks, of the Via Purifico. Even now in his head, those still waters disrupted violently as a doomed prisoner was sent sinking into the murky depths. The 'Cleansing Waters' were indeed mysterious, and he had been grateful to have never disposed of the corpses at the other end, often mangled and stripped to the bare bone by amphibious fiends.

He continued. "Besides, you're no guardian. You can't even enter the _Trials_, let alone the antechamber. You _will_ stay here until he is finished."

"Hey, _you're_ a guardian! Why in blazes are you stood around here? Shouldn't you be, you know, in the anti-chamber?"

"I should be."

"Well then, why ain't ya?"

"Someone has to watch you. And also, milord requested that he go alone. Said he wanted to look after himself."

"Kinda defeats the purpose of being a guardian, huh?"

"To be a good guardian, you also have to know when not to guard your master. It is a relationship of mutual trust. After all, Lord Braska is a grown man, your age in fact, and far wiser than we'll ever be. Who's to say he's not guarding us?"

Jecht pondered this, and slowly started to piece things together. If Braska was so assured, why did he ask Jecht to come along in the first place? He had a gut feeling it wasn't about Zanarkand principally, though it was clear the summoner was in love with the great city.

"I've contemplated it," Auron continued, "And it must be Sin's toxin."

"What d'ya mean?"

"Sin's toxin. Those who get too close can lose their memory. Maybe you encountered Sin, inhaled its toxin somewhere along the way. That's why you can't remember anything about Yevon and Spira. Hmph, to actually think, even for moment, that I romanticised about a land free from Sin…"

It was not even a suggestion from Auron to Jecht, but a command, an instruction of a way to act from then on as to avert attention. Even if Auron or Braska wanted to believe it, the notion of a Zanarkand native just popping up in Spira after so long was beyond preposterous, even bordering on the profane.

It was all very convenient to dismiss a genuine amnesiac or a lunatic, or someone who really was from Zanarkand. Sin was the ultimate scapegoat for whatever societal problems lingered beneath the united, diligent Spira. There was no toxin. Jecht's life was real; Yevon, Aeons, Spira, they were the fantasy. Maybe he'd go back if he pinched himself hard enough.

"What is all this commotion at such an ungodly hour?"

Jecht met the owner of the frail voice: a bent withered codger, whose body struggled to carry the robes festooning it and a leathery face splayed with liver spots. Wiry tufts of white hair sprouted up in isolated spots on his pate. In his fist, he clasped the thin wisp of a beard at his chin and smoothed it downwards repeatedly.

"Quite a loud man, aren't you?"

Jecht placed his hands on his hips and beamed a white smile. "Loud and proud. Name's Jecht, old man, star player of the Zanarkand Abes. Maybe you've heard of me."

The old priest glowered uncaringly and continued to smooth down his beard. "No." was his retort. "Your delusions may tell you that you were once some loutish celebrity in your so-called city that never sleeps, but you're no one here. In Spira, you have to earn the respect of the people, and you won't do it acting like a primate."

The words impregnated Jecht's seemingly impenetrable confidence and hit him mercilessly. Like an ashamed son being reproached by a disapproving father, Jecht's head fell into his chest and his shoulders drooped.

The priest initially walked away, but turned back to give Jecht a final scolding. "Oh, and remember that this is a house of Yevon. We won't stand for heresy here. Zanarkand indeed…"

And so Auron's words were vindicated. He was unacceptable to these old farts that were stuck in their ways. Obviously they had become spellbound by the scrolls of Yevon that spouted nonsense about Zanarkand, a lavish utopia that put their backwater colonies to shame. Maybe the whole Yevon creed was built upon jealousy. But Jecht couldn't repent or atone for crimes he didn't commit. And he couldn't preach to the masses from the hilltops, denouncing their musty religion either, for fear of being lynched. All he could do was ride it out, maybe even pretend he was one of Sin's victims, for as long as it would help him.

* * *

_Meanwhile, within the Chamber of the Fayth…_

Summoner Braska continued to meditate, sat with both knees eased into stone floor. His subconscious was calling out to the aeon of ice, hoping she would deem him worthy. Shiva's statue pulsated in the blue gloom of the chamber. The summoner was certain that the ancient Yevon lettering descending the walls was changing, almost to the point that it was legible in his eyes. They trickled down the walls, vanishing into the icy mist in the gap around the statue. But was he still locked in the deepest recesses of his mind, or was the very fabric of the mysterious chamber being manipulated with him inside?

The ghost that hovered above the statue was that of a painfully young girl, her eyes vacant and glazed over. It seemed that every last shred of humanity had frozen still somewhere deep inside her, a distant husk left behind. Braska felt a shiver course down his spine, shooting into his fingers and toes like tiny knives. He exhaled sharply and watched his breath crystallise before him.

Without words, the girl rose upwards and vaulted deep into the centre of his chest, pyreflies peeling from her flesh as she entered the physical realm for a split second. The sense of invasion was dry, cold and agonising, a soul forcing itself upon another. The summoner clutched at his chest furiously, trying in vain to tear out the invader, before collapsing in a crumpled heap on the floor.

* * *

The young boy Yevon was feared and spurned by his peers because of the uncanny and dangerous abilities he possessed. There were… attempts on his life, including from his own blood. Through the hardships of his early years, Yevon learned the values of diplomacy, which he used to forge strong bonds of friendship with the next largest city in Spira, Bevelle. Historically, these two superpowers had been uneasy allies, but Yevon had managed to bring them together in peace.

Yevon also became allies with the aloof Al Bhed. Their mastery over machines was a fair trade for providing shelter and warmth for key members of their race. Things were good in the garden of Yevon, but something went wrong…

* * *

Summoner Braska inhaled for the first time back: a sharp, deep breath that bit into the bronchioles of his lungs. He had returned from his hallucination, staring up at the gloomy roof of the chamber. "Just when it was getting interesting…" he uttered to himself, a smothered sense of disappointment that he could not quench his insatiable appetite for Zanarkand.

He was being offered shimmers of the ancient past, of a time were no waking eye could see. He questioned why the Fayth -first Bahamut and now Shiva- were revealing these things, about Lord Yevon, of all people. Then he realised that as a 'reward' for being worthy, the Fayth were telling the summoner what he wanted to hear, about life, about anything. For each journeyer, the tales would be different, he imagined. It was no coincidence that he daydreamed about the past, a past he had been warned by his peers was futile to pine after. _Well, who had the last laugh?_

As in Bevelle, Braska used his stave as leverage to an upright position, but this time with more conviction. His experiences were making him stronger, in body at least. And so he took Shiva's essence with a sense of expectancy upon himself. He had a goddess waiting inside him and he did not want to disappoint her.


	8. Bridging Two Worlds

VIII

_Bridging Two Worlds_

Jecht had begun to scrape his right leg past his left and vice versa in a bored, predictable rhythm, perpetually asking if they were any closer to Zanarkand. Auron had threatened to smack him silly, but begrudgingly restrained himself when Braska shot him a pointed side glance. In the same way he did with Yuna, Braska had kept Jecht amused by tales of the mystical musician race that inhabited Macalania Woods: those that emerged only in twinkling dawns like this. Their waking, soft melodies cascaded down through the trees and serenaded those travellers fortunate enough to hear it, fuelled by the imagination of little girls.

They spent the morning working their way through to a copse in the southern part of the woods, battling near the camp with low level fiends. A bored and tired Jecht had watched the more experienced warriors mostly, but Braska permitted him the occasional deathblow to an already dying fiend, just to boost his confidence.

They set up camp later on with the sun approaching its peak. Braska prepared a picnic on a neatly pressed red checked cloth, with yellowing plastic glasses and Tupperware pots containing rations from the temple. Auron kept watch while Jecht scouted the wider area from atop the tallest tree in the entire forest.

"What can you see there, Jecht?" yelled the summoner from his grounded position.

"You should come up here Braska. The view's great!"

"No thanks." was Braska's jovial response.

Jecht could see thunderclouds that massed in the south: dark, heavy grey that moaned with a sore growling sound. Sparks continued to blast down towards the charred turf, dampening on impact with tall iron masts. He twisted back to see the mountain that towered over the woods, almost as though it could actually topple over on top of them. The peak started high and the base of the mountain widened until it strangulated the entire northern view. The navy blue sky overhead was crisp and clear, sandwiched by the ravenous blizzards to the north and the violent grey thunderclouds to the south. It was three micro-climates in one skyline, breathtaking and fearsome at the same time.

He returned to the temple that he could now see quite clearly in its entirety, a splash of colour throbbing through the glassy white precipices and crevices of the lake area.

The music he had heard before faintly in the air returned to him. Jecht recalled the solitary female voice and began to whistle the tune as his eyes drifted shut.

…_Ieyui._

_Nobomeno._

_Renmiri._

_Yojyuyogo._

_Hasatekanae._

_Kutamae…_

Those words… Jecht was familiar with them, before he had heard them in the temple. It took him to times in Zanarkand, of balmy summer evenings. He and Linnya always used to tuck their son into bed and softly sing that lullaby. Jecht struggled to carry a tune and often melted into the periphery of the duet, but her voice was beautiful, like heaven. By the last verse, he had stopped singing and just watched in love struck awe. The boy would be out like a light, and her voice would become hushed, the final low note straining away into silence.

And there was the third link between Spira and Zanarkand: first Sin, then the prayer and now the Hymn of the Fayth. He was too dumb to figure it all out there and then, but was increasingly eager to find out what else linked the two worlds.

With still unquestionable athleticism, the Blitzer worked his way down the tree, swinging gymnastically through the branches. He doubled over himself and spun forwards and back, hovering in the air at times, while never doubting his grip or his balance.

"Hey, grub's up!" he enthused, rubbing his palms together with glee. "What have we got here, Braska?"

"Jerked salamander, fresh from Kilika Temple."

The summoner tucked into his with much more enthusiasm than the crestfallen Blitz star. Uneasily, Jecht took one of the dry, pruned lizards and ripped off a small strip of flesh. He chewed slowly before swallowing. "Hmm, not too bad, actually. Tastes like… chicken."

"Like what?" asked Auron.

"Chick… oh, never mind."

Braska gathered the three glasses and closed his eyes. With even more focus than in combat, he drew out the pyreflies in the air. They condensed in the glasses and changed into water. It was nearly perfect: a few drops spilled from one glass onto the cloth, much to the summoner's bother. He used a gravity spell to send two of the glasses towards Auron and Jecht. The latter took a large gulp but his excited expression quickly shifted to one of displeasure.

"Hey, what the Hell? This is _water_!"

"How very astute of you, Jecht. Think I'd be a summoner if I could turn water into wine?"

"I guess not." Jecht giggled before returning to his salamander. "So, Braska. I've been here a while now and no one's really explained what I need to know about Yevon. I think I've already upset a few people around here and Auron thinks I should pretend to have Sin's toxin in me, or somethin'."

"There's no 'pretend' about it--"

"So, you know, just give me the back story on this Yevon fella, fill me in."

Braska chewed for a short while, trying to take a step back and get the whole Yevon creed into perspective.

"Well, a thousand years ago, Spira was full of machina cities, like Zanarkand. It was a world ravaged by war and power mongering because of it. Before we could destroy ourselves it would seem, Sin came to destroy the machina cities. And then, when we tried to rebuild those cities, Sin returned to crush them too. The people of Spira grew to hate machina because of its connotations with Sin, and they especially hate those who associate with it: the Al Bhed, for instance."

And him, for his association with the Al Bhed. "Yevon's teachings state that Sin is our greed, our pride and our vanity. Until we atone for our past transgressions, Sin will continue to ruin our lands. Yevon states that we should place faith in our summoners to defeat Sin and that once we have cleansed our souls of impurity, Sin will never come back."

It was too text book for Jecht's liking. There was no passion in that explanation, just an obedient retelling of Yevon's precepts. "So, who is it that hates machina then: Sin or Yevon?"

"Sin _is_ hate. It hates everything without discrimination. Yevon has no opinion on the subject either way. Yevon was just a man, a great man who was there at the birth of Sin, a man who understands Sin and why it came about in the first place.

"The scriptures simply state that we must not use machina because machina breeds weakness within men. These are merely facts. Spira nearly destroyed itself through conceit a millennium past and Sin has haunted us like a phantom ever since."

Jecht struggled to get his head around such a dubious story. "I don't buy it."

"Excuse me?" said Auron, with more than a hint of threat in his voice.

"It's all garbage, man! Machina isn't the route of all evil, weakness of character is. Machines are no worse than the jerks that use them for their own ends. If Yevon suddenly said one day fish were evil, would you seriously go on a fish witch hunt? No, you wouldn't! The way I see it, machina is a good thing."

If Braska would give the word, his guardian would carve Jecht into so much compost. Instead, Auron remained seated, but enraged all the same. "Yevon's teachings state that once humans have power, they will seek to use it. Sin is our punishment for allowing machina use to get of control--"

"Ah, Yevon's teachings!" Jecht groaned. "I've had it up to here with Yevon's teachings! Yevon says this, Yevon says that, Yevon demands you can't take a dump without saying, 'Praise be to Yevon!' I've never seen a bunch of people so disconnected from their own lives!"

If looks could kill, then Auron would have slew Jecht long before he finished the sentence.

"In Zanarkand…"

"In Zanarkand, there is no Sin." Auron intervened. "You may criticise that which you do not understand, but we stick to Yevon's scriptures because they're all we have left. In these desperate times, Yevon is the closest thing to an answer."

"Ah, it just seems like one huge vicious cycle to me. Instead of takin' hold of your own destinies, you let your saviour Yevon just sweep you down the river. I've seen it ever since I got here. There's no sense of, uh, what's the word…"

Jecht clicked his fingers, trying to pinch the word he required out of thin air. "You know what I mean, moving on. Growth?"

"Posterity." Auron suggested.

"That's right, posterity!" Though Jecht was not totally sure what posterity meant, he was on a roll and just went with it. "And you wanna know why? 'Cause you're afraid. You've been bossed around by Sin and Yevon for so long that you couldn't imagine a world without either of 'em!"

Again Jecht was practically pushing his food in the faces of his colleagues as he did back in Bevelle, the last time he was inspired.

"You could use machines to kill Sin, or at least soften it up long enough for the summoners to finish it off, but you don't because you're afraid to offend the sensibilities of this Yevon guy, who's been dead by all accounts for a thousand years!"

"It's more complicated than that, Jecht." Auron retorted. "While we all hate Sin, using that which brought about Sin in the first place is not the way. Either a new Sin would take its stead, or we would go on to repeat the mistakes of history and turn our machina on each other."

Jecht had no quick fire answer to that point, something that brought obvious satisfaction to the guardian. "Besides, you can't just stand up amongst the crowd and declare your love for machina. I'm a former Warrior Monk and people… die by such words. It's easier to just accept it."

"Baloney if you ask me. Yevon sounds more and more like a dictatorship. They say that this is divine and this is evil but they simply can't produce a good reason why. You ask me, the Al Bhed have got the right idea."

"You bad mouth Yevon, but you have no explanation for why Sin is here, either!"

Jecht realised just how easy it was to get under the skin of a Yevonite, even two who had been wronged by Yevon such as Auron and Braska. They truly had been brainwashed like the rest, unable to rise above the self-inflicted oppression, as much as he was sure they would like to. Jecht could actually see veins pulsing at Auron's temples and his neck. Even Braska, enthusiast of the machina metropolis Zanarkand, seemed slightly miffed by the audacity of this outsider, though he was doing a much better job of hiding it than his guardian.

"Jecht, while I understand your point of view and I even agree that Yevon can be inflexible at times," conceded the summoner, "When you are in public places with us on the pilgrimage, you must not say these things, especially not to the priests. It would cause… complications, for all of us."

The man from Zanarkand held up his hands as to show his good will. "Totally understand, Braska. When in Spira, act as the Spirans would. My lips are sealed. Mom's the word."

In a rather awkward, silent atmosphere, Jecht finished off his salamander and water before tucking in for yet another nap.

* * *

_Zanarkand: four years before_

4: 07. Jecht had endured a sleepless night so far. The ravenous cheers of the crowds still rang true in his ears, though the memories of his most recent victory were fading. He lay beneath silken bed sheets, the arm of his wife Linnya draped across his clammy chest. He took her limp fingers in his and just held them there, holding on to the tranquil feelings he felt whenever she touched him. She stirred slightly, nuzzled in the nook where Jecht's left shoulder met his neck. Sex wasn't easy with a three year-old kid next door, but they got by alright. Nothing sound proofing of the walls couldn't fix.

He carefully rose from the bed. Linnya unconsciously clung on to the pillow where Jecht's head had been and continued to dream. Cautiously negotiating the taped cardboard boxes piled up on the carpet, Jecht moved over to the window at the far end of the dank bedroom. This, like many of the high-rise apartment blocks in Sector B-West, had water cascading from the top of the building, spilling over the windows and down into the depths below. It looked like rain, but Jecht knew it never rained in Zanarkand.

This was another reason why they were moving home tomorrow. He felt oppressed in this place. There was no sense of freedom for the megastar that he was. Jecht was a man of means now, and deserved more than an elevated, sweaty, rainy condo. He placed his hand on the window, desperate to see through the water onto his city.

The floating house on the sea was much better for him and his family. Not only was it a stone's throw from the stadium in A-East, but it made him happier to be there: looking out on the sparkling ocean, at the stadium, the buildings, taking in the salty air. He was at the very least maintaining the illusion of being a family man, and that made him feel important. It made him feel like he was living for someone else and not just himself.

Agitated, he threw on a hooded grey pullover and some grubby slacks and made his way out of the apartment. The door slid open, painting a golden slit of light over Linnya and her perfect breasts. He took a lingering, love-drunk look and considered how damned lucky he was, before heading outside.

Breaking at times into a light, if not wholly committed jog, Jecht made his way towards the stadium through the high street in town. He kept the hood fastened tightly around his head; the city that never slept was so called for a reason. Even at this hour, shopkeepers and bartenders worked with the same zest that they had in the afternoon. Neon banners throbbed and moaned; holographic images hovered incessantly in the air. Music pulsated from the many bars on this strip, rendering conversation between the drunken patrons within useless.

Jecht licked his lips and realised that he could go for a swift beer, but really could not be bothered with the hassle. The highway leading towards the stadium was much quieter, and Jecht felt secure enough to remove his hood. The early morning air blasted over his face, cooling the mid-summer sweat on his forehead.

The Blitz star allowed a large grin to creep onto his face. Here he had time to himself, just him and the city that he had grown to love. From the highway, he could look down at the other sectors of the city rousing as the sun came up. Jecht enjoyed just watching it alone as the lights went out one-by-one. The stars began to fade away as the rosy glow washed over the buildings, spreading huge toppling shadows across the highway. Everything soon smouldered with a natural light.

"E-excuse me," came a nervous voice from behind as a finger tapped on his shoulder. "You're- you're Jecht, aren't you?"

Jecht turned his head and noticed a small army of people queuing up behind him. A flood of rage hit him so hard he could feel his fingernails bite into the palm of his hand. With a huge breath of courage, he turned back with a fake grin plastered across his face. "Yeah, sure I am."

"Uh, could you sign this to my son, Zanar?"

The man forced a blitzball and a marker pen into Jecht's chest. Despite being the same age as him, this tall, strapping fan was reduced to the state of a child in the presence of his hero. Jecht, despite feeling a tornado of anger churning up inside him, signed the blitzball and sent him on his way. After about a half-hour of signatures, handshakes and photographs, he was finally allowed to get the hell out of there.

Managing to avoid the crush of early morning workers, he cut through various alleyways and side streets on the way back home. Suddenly overwhelmed, he slumped into a wall and snivelled softly to himself. It was too much to take. No time in his life was ever private. This was the unbearable price he had to pay. Jecht placed a hand over his mouth, on the very cusp of tears.

"Excuse me, sir. Are you okay?"

The voice was from behind, so it wasn't too late for Jecht to tighten his hood and conceal his identity. "I'm fine, pal. Right as rain, just leave me alone, okay?"

With his face virtually hidden, Jecht barged past the young man, who simply stood there in amazement. "There's some weirdoes in this town."


	9. Home Truth

IX

_Home Truth_

Auron continually glanced his scout knife across the surface of a makeshift whetstone, back and forth in a constant rhythm. The scrape of a dulled edge soon settled into a graceful shift of steel on stone. It brought about an unseen satisfaction within as the blunt nooks gave way to a smooth, razor-sharp finish.

Ultimately, it signified the warrior's boredom, sharpening a weapon he rarely used. It was a mindless distraction from the tedium that undoubtedly filled large parts of the watch, the point where one tired of his own thoughts.

Throughout the fall of the sun Auron had habitually monitored the motions of his master. Once more, he had offered to take the watch and oversaw Braska and that heathen Jecht in their sleep. Only Braska was not asleep and had not been for some time.

The summoner stabbed at the dying embers of the campfire with a twig, watching sparks lazily ignite- only to cool and die completely, leaving pallid ash behind. Braska twisted to face Auron, who now had his knees raised to his chest in a bid to lock his body heat close to him. The guardian awkwardly burst into life when his stare caught Braska's and he rummaged around in his rucksack for some imaginary potion- anything to deflect suspicion.

The summoner was uncomfortable with Auron's obsessive nature, but he accepted it as the condition, or should he say, the "_Code_" of the Guardian: Protect the summoner, even at the cost of one's life. Decreed by Yevon's teachings, this was the soulless and often suicidal command to ensure their master's success, even if it meant the ruin of their own bodies and lives.

He considered that a guardian did not have a life per se, having written off any of their personal hopes and dreams the day they swore their oaths to Yevon. They were the red carpet on which their revered lieges strode en route to bringing the Calm.

He tried for a second to place himself in the mind of a guardian and considered that their lives were merely a series of moments, with no past and no future. They were often victims in their young lives; perhaps the loss of a loved one or the betrayal of an ideal sent them down the guardian's path. It was simple, stripped down to the bare essence and taken from conceit and ambition. It was pure, but also hollow.

Braska sighed and arched backwards into a prone position, so he could see the stars glittering through the branches of the copse. He was certain Jecht could provide some perfect scientific explanation for them, but Braska didn't want to hear it. They were just fine the way they were: magical and beyond his fingertips. A shooting star blasted across the sky, ultimately to fizzle and fall; but it had burned brightly enough in its short existence to be noticed.

* * *

The air had a wet, electrical charge, and not just physically. This place filled its guests with trepidation. White flashes slammed ferociously towards the ground, with the crackling resonance of thunder in the aftermath. The dicey, rocky ground had become scorched and cauterised over the centuries, pummelled by countless bolts. 

If the Macalania Forest conveyed a sense of beauty, mystery and awe, then these hellish plains brought nothing more than malice, dread and paranoia. The only thing to punctuate the unbearing ebon lands was the occasional lightning mast. Essentially stone pillars with large iron forks jutting into the skies, they were designed to ease the burden of the Crossing. Some of the masts were even missing their forks, rendering them useless. For the most part however, they seemed to attract the large majority of the bolts and the travellers felt safe enough beneath the towering monoliths. In sporadic bursts of motion, the pilgrims sprinted from one tower to the next, at the same time fending off all manner of lightning elemental fiends.

From the relative safe haven of a secluded stone awning, Jecht impatiently charged up his sphere camera in anticipation of his first sight of danger in Spira. This was what it was all about: adventure, excitement and peril. His boy was going to see his dad a hero and that was that. He had gotten a taste for the fiends in this area and now he wanted it on camera.

"No way." Auron spat through his teeth when Jecht handed him the sphere camera. "We don't have time for this tomfoolery!" he cried resentfully, but with an impending sense of failure.

"Do as he says, Auron." Braska commanded flatly.

His face now turning a positive shade of red, the guardian snapped the camera from the grasp of the grinning Jecht and the man from Zanarkand gleefully strode out into the unsheltered plains with hardly a care in the world.

Auron was all thumbs, trying to figure out how to work the blasted device. Were it not for his master's inevitable reaction, he would hurl the sacrilegious contraption to the ground with all his pent-up spite and end Jecht's chicanery there and then. At length, he fingered the big green button on the side and the machina whirred into life. Through the viewfinder, he could make out figures in a watery cobalt hue.

"_Hey_! Hold it steady!" bawled Jecht, not impressed with Auron's twitchy hand.

"Why am I doing this?" the guardian whinged to himself, certain that no one in Spira or beyond would deliver him from this foolish cur who plagued him.

Slinking away undetected, Summoner Braska managed to steal another private moment. Thoughts came to him without effort, possibilities and outcomes swarming over him. He had thought of the pilgrimage as a straightforward journey, with a beginning, middle and end. There were no consequences worth rueing, only peace and freedom for all. It gave him a simple, dedicated target to aim for. But things had not turned out that way so far.

He had bid farewell to his hometown Bevelle. No matter what had transpired in the past, he always shared love and warmth with the great city. He had walked away from his only kin, an eight year old girl. He had passed through the stunning but deceptively perilous Macalania and even in this ghastly climate, he couldn't stifle the nostalgia that gnawed away at him relentlessly. These were his places, his memories, his world. He'd probably never see them again and allowed for moments alone such as this to absorb the sights, the sounds, the smells and the feelings associated with each place he passed. He wanted his mind and his heart to be filled with memories… before the end.

"What can you see there, my lord?"

The summoner realised he had begun to stare off aimlessly into the distance. "Oh, I was just… thinking."

Jecht popped out from behind a distant tower, visibly impatient with his two comrades. This was the first opportunity for his son to see what a great man his dad really was. There would not be many of these travel shots, so everything had to be perfect. He'd already spotted a scrawny looking lizard fiend and had donned his hunting face.

"This is important… no foolin' around! You're gonna spoil it! _Whoa_!"

With the crack of an electric whip, Jecht was grounded with a painful bump on the rear.

"Are you alright?" asked a worried Braska.

Auron fought his initial reaction of concern and allowed a wicked sense of amusement to gush up out of him in side-splitting laughter. "Now there's a scene for _posterity_!"

The guardian zoomed in on Jecht and ensured his embarrassment was captured in all its glory. Jecht clenched his jaw, embittered in defeat. "Yeah, yeah…" he moaned below his breath, a trodden anger rippling at the surface.

Certain his fellow man's only wounds were to his pride, Braska too erupted into laughter. He knew it was rude to laugh at another's misfortune, but it was hilariously ironic after the way Jecht had tried to orchestrate the perfect opening scene to his 'movie', only to be grounded in the first take. And it seemed doubtful to the summoner that Auron would allow the moment to be deleted.

* * *

The pilgrims had passed the halfway point of the Thunder Plains and now rested in the Bilghen Memorial Travel Agency. If there was one place in all the inhospitable reaches of Spira that respite was needed, then it was there. According to the Al Bhed, one of their architects named Bilghen had created the lightning towers centuries ago, a fact overlooked by the history books of Yevon. Sadly, he was struck by a bolt while erecting the final tower, killed instantly in tragically ironic circumstances. But his legacy ensured that summoners could cross the plains in relative safety.

There were rumours about the plains, none substantiated in doctrine of course. Banned literature claimed that it was in fact Yevon himself who had cursed these lands a thousand years ago. He had supposedly cast a summoning over the land to separate the civilised peoples of the Djose continent from the feuding cities of the northern Wilderia content. It was all very silly and easy to dismiss of course. For one thing, it would require Yevon to still be alive to maintain the summoning. The Thunder Plains were just like any of the other phenomena of Spira: simply beyond the ken of any Spiran mortal.

Jecht idly thumbed over the pages of a travel brochure laid out on the counter. He did not pay much attention to the words; it was just something to deflect his attention away from how horribly bored he was. The book was called "A history of summoners, Thunder Plains Edition" and contained some spiel about a guy called Gandof, who sealed the mischievous fiend species known as the Qactuars in various headstones sprawled out across the plains. For Jecht to be able to summarise ten pages of text into one sentence showed how little he cared for it.

"Dammit, does anyone actually _work_ around here?"

Suddenly and shockingly becoming visible from underneath the counter, a young Al Bhed sprung up to attention. "May I help you?"

Jecht rocked back on his stool in alarm. "What the hell are you doing down there?"

"Dusting." He monotonously replied, revealing a grimy feather brush. "Cleanliness is next to Godliness, after all."

"Yeah, well why don't you make yourself useful and get me a drink?"

"As the followers of Yevon may say, 'hold your Chocobos.' I shall get you the house special: authentic Al Bhed whisky. Only the best for a summoner's entourage."

Rin was so young for a successful businessman: twenty years of age now, if Braska did his math correctly. He was a tall, slim man with a mane of flowing blond hair that had been propped back by a pair of goggles resting on his forehead. His beige jacket was a little too short for him in places, exposing his tanned chest and abdomen. Like most of the Al Bhed, his clothing and his black pants in particular were strapped up with belts and buckles. The young man caught the summoner's eye and offered something equating a smile. "Ah, summoner Braska." The Al Bhed bowed before him. "It's been…"

"Twelve years." Braska determined, seizing Rin by the hand and shaking it firmly, much as he did playfully with the eight year-old lad last time they met. "My apologies. I haven't visited Home much lately."

"Neither have I." was the polite, robotic response. "The… 'incident' changed many lives, yours most of all, I would imagine."

Braska rolled his eyes away deliberately, not keen to discuss the ancient past in the open. "We'll have a room for the night please, Rin."

Taken aback, Auron held out his hands in protest. "The night? My lord, we're already behind schedule; we needn't waste our time this way!"

"Relax, would ya?"

Auron didn't need a glance to his side to know who it was; the overpowering stench of alcohol was sufficient. "There's plenty of time man, and we've been out in that storm for hours. We may as well just chill out for the night and pick up the trail in the morning, huh?"

Auron's constipated look intensified. "Is that your ethos? Why do today what you can leave for tomorrow?"

"Look, you're in the middle of a thunderstorm in the middle of the night. Ain't nothin' you can do but nothin'. Let's stay here until the damn storm eases off."

"It won't." Auron stated, matter-of-factly. "The lightning never stops on the Thunder Plains. Now is as good a time as any to resume the journey."

"We rest, regardless." was Braska's final word on the subject.

* * *

"Plains of light, plains of thunder… Those who cross are torn asunder." The summoner mused to himself, echoing back to his education. 

He observed the storm from his warm, sheltered bed. Streaks of rain trickled down the window pane, Braska's ghostly reflection trapped in the blink of a lightning bolt. The image burned his retina, and then faded into a purple blotch. It was the image of a thousand victims before him, summoners who had undertaken this task of all tasks, many dying. He considered that he projected the very image of Yevon -the prodigal son even- had things not gone the way they were… had he not fallen in love with her.

The summoner took a look around the room. It was colourful, if not entirely bland and functional. Like a watered down version of a true Al Bhed home it lacked that pizzazz, thanks mainly to Yevon's censorship. On the wall opposite was a notice explaining the expected rules of conduct from the guests and underneath this, a desk of drawers to stash valuables. He sat on the lip of a double bed, with white silky bed linen. Auron was sprawled out on the other side, now fast asleep with an arm resting on his forehead. Even though Braska was certain the guardian slept, his eyes were half-open and looking in his direction. Auron's robes were strewn messily on the floor, damp and nearly black with moisture, and his mud-encrusted boots were laid to the side. For once, Braska could see his long tied hair that now spilled over his shoulders and onto his arms.

Braska supposed Jecht was asleep as well, as he always seemed to be, but no. A cut of light widened across the carpet as the bathroom door slowly creaked open. Braska caught a glimpse of Jecht, apparently shaving the areas of his face and neck around his goatee beard. He was caked in the foam that Braska had prepared earlier with ingredients to hand: boiled and then cooled blubber from a presumably still-living flan fiend, and distilled alcohol.

Braska noticed the man from Zanarkand humming a tune unmistakable to any Spiran native: the Hymn of the Fayth. It was a pretty lousy rendition in all truth, offensive enough to bring Auron back from his slumber. "Would you pipe down, Jecht? Some people are trying to _sleep_!" he growled, burying his head restlessly under his pillow.

Yet the Blitz star continued unabated, the Hymn disrupted only by a sharp nick from the razor blade. "Oh, you son of a…"

Braska drifted off about then, he thought. He may not have; it was a shallow snooze at best. Some time later he came to, rising for the first time in the pilgrimage sans headdress. His silver hair spilled wildly across his shoulders and the bed sheets.

Stirring in the gloom at the corner of the room was Jecht, slumped down in a wicker chair. He was staring out of the window at his side aimlessly, with the bottle of whisky in his left hand hanging heavily. The lightning painted his face a haunted blue. He stayed like that for a long while, before taking another protracted chug from the bottle.

The summoner noticed clenched in his right hand was a pearl necklace. "Didn't know you were the type."

Jecht chuckled and raised the beads to his eyes. "For my wife, Linnya. There'll make a sweet homecomin' gift when I get back. And maybe I'll hand down the camera for my boy too, like I should have last year."

He tried to get up and collect the sphere camera, but lost his footing and slouched back to the wicker chair, his whisky spilling from its bottle and staining the carpet.

"What's on your mind, Jecht?"

Jecht's eyes fixed low and he said, "I was just thinking."

"About?"

"'Bout Zanarkand. All kinds of stuff."

Braska leaned in, drowsy but intrigued. He didn't say anything, but wanted Jecht to continue.

"…It was a night like this one, a day or two before I landed in Spira: electric, excitin'. I was drunk. I went out to play poker with the boys and… I ended up dancing on a bar in town. So hammered, I didn't even care that the paparazzi had a field day with it. Came back late and she'd been awake all the time, waitin' for me, cryin' her eyes out. She was screamin', accusin' me of seein' another woman…"

"Did you?"

Jecht's eyes burned white hot for a moment, the memory scalding him. "Nuh-uh, no way. You can call me any name under the sun, but I ain't a cheater. Anyways, she started throwin' stuff around, breakin' stuff and… and there was the boy, just watchin' me, expectin' me to do somethin' stupid… and I flipped. Hit her hard with the back of my hand before she could break my '97 Diamond Cup trophy, which of course broke anyway when she dropped it."

Braska leaned back, himself now staring at the bottle and the dark liquid within. He offered a quivering but compassionate smile, liking to think he understood what torments Jecht was going through, though in truth he didn't have a clue. Jecht knew this, and smiled back, hiding his own deep-seated loathing: for Braska's bogus sympathy, for what he did to her all those years ago, and for the fact he was still drinking at that very moment. This was what he hated about the drink: it could be his best friend or his worst enemy simply on what mood it was in at the time.

The bottle slipped from his grip and it tipped messily over, whisky gushing in waves across the carpet and the veneered floorboards. Not caring a jot about that for now, he brought Braska's attention back to him with a flash of his hands.

"You wanna know what the worst part about it was? The _boy_. Didn't say a word, not a peep. 'I hate you' would have hurt less than what he did. Just went back to his room, shut the door and that was that. Last time I saw him."

Jecht retrieved the empty bottle and carefully, belatedly placed it on a nearby dresser and allowed his head to drop low in the shadows below his neck. His hands clasped tightly together and he rubbed his thumbs, having difficulties getting it all out. For the first time, Braska acknowledged that Jecht did not have control over his drinking habit.

"Gotta get back to Zanarkand." he slurred.

The summoner broke away to look at and through the wall to his back, to the distant north. A shamed look etched into his brow, though he did not allow Jecht to see it.


	10. Council with the Dead

X

_Council with the Dead_

After fighting their way through the most treacherous southern parts of the plains, the pilgrims were faced with an immense rain slicked rock face that stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions. There were yawning jaws that led into a tunnel so shadowy there was no way of knowing what lay within. Guardedly they shuffled into the murky passageway that narrowed as they advanced to the point that Braska -artificially the tallest of the group- was forced to squat so that the tines of his helm didn't scrape on the roof.

Jecht was again humming something that vaguely resembled the Hymn of the Fayth. It was as though remembering those times in Zanarkand with Linnya and the bedtime lullabies brought the Hymn roaring back to the forefront of his mind. Whenever he recited it, it reminded him of that warm feeling of home. It was a shred of hope in a totally desolate foreign world.

"You should stop singing the Hymn, Jecht." Auron said, somewhere between a suggestion and a command.

"And why would I do a thing like that?"

"Because you butcher it with that awful tenor of yours."

The guardian extended a flat palm behind him and stepped up first into the darkness, leaving Braska and Jecht in tow.

"Why'd you let that jerk-off follow you around anyhow, Braska?"

"I saved his life not so long ago. Auron was once a Warrior Monk of Bevelle, the armed guard of the Maesters. He was highly revered and in line for a big promotion, to second-in-command."

"So what went wrong?"

"Marriage was forced upon him, the hand of the High Priest's daughter. Nobody should be forced to marry, he told me afterwards. Marriage is a symbol of love, not of necessity. So, he declined and was discharged from the Monks for it. The promotion went to his friend Kinoc instead."

"Ouch. So that would explain the stick in his ass."

"After that, he drifted for a while on the streets of Bevelle and soon hit the bottle. I heard of his misfortune and wished to find him, to ask for his aid. I soon learned he liked to drink at the Bottomless Mug, a dive of a tavern on the waterfront of Bevelle. Yevon extremists had chased him into the streets, pushing him around and even threatened to kill him. He was drunk and unarmed, so I convinced the aggressors to spare him in the name of Yevon.

"I fixed him up with food and new clothes. He insisted he owed me a life debt. After telling him my story, I think he saw my resolve, maybe he empathised with the way I had too been cast aside by Yevon's priesthood, and he offered to become my guardian."

"So I wasn't the first drunk drifter you got on your team."

"There's more to it than that, Jecht. I see real potential in our party. I do, you know. All of us have a strong motive and desire. Auron and myself have something to prove to our peers. You have a strong desire to get back to Zanarkand and see your family again. Zanarkand… the final vestige of our journey."

In his slightly restrictive robes, Braska shuffled on in his unique manner, leaving Jecht a second or two to reflect on why he was really there. Soon, rock gave way to vine and they had reached the tree village of Guadosalam. It had been planted and cultivated centuries ago for the purpose of housing the Guado tribe. Though many had sought their fortunes elsewhere, this was their spiritual home and their roots were deepest here, so to speak.

Jecht eased his fingers across the walls of the tunnel, scaling over the cool, smooth matter that peeked out of the walls through weaving vines. It was the same material that he had discovered in the forest, throbbing with brilliant blue light. It reacted to his touch as though alive.

"What _is_ this stuff?"

"We call it sphere matter." explained Braska. "Simply water with a higher concentration of pyreflies in it than normal, crystallising it."

"Like the Blitz Sphere, you mean?"

"Correct. I suppose it serves best here as a natural light source, but it can be harvested and used in sphere cameras, like yours."

"A natural light source? What's powering all of it?"

"Memories." was the cryptic reply. "Any large gathering of pyreflies in a watery area will eventually birth sphere matter around there. As we are so close to the both the Farplane and the Thunder Plains, it's no wonder that the matter grows abundantly here."

Braska slid his hand along the innards of the tunnel, leaving a resinous gloss on his fingertips. "Places with a high level of pyreflies are like windows into the past. The pyreflies react to, maybe even feed off of people's thoughts and memories; sometimes an especially large, lingering group of pyreflies can 'remember' an event or a person and they reappear like ghosts. The Al Bhed would have you believe that the entire concept of the Farplane is based on this notion."

Jecht had switched off long before Braska had finished, figuring the summoner wouldn't mind the sound of his own drivel for a little while. He stood still and felt the dew on the ground soak into his calloused feet and it soothed him. This Guadosalam was indeed a place of natural beauty, of healing. It took his mind away from the fat head he had woken up with.

The sights, smells and sounds of the town met them in full as they emerged from the tunnel. It was essentially the inside of a hollow tree, with extremely thick off-shoots sprouting from a central column, wide and stout enough to support people and even shops. Living platforms had grown inwards, allowing the residents to set up homes there. The twisting structure scaled up as high as forty feet before merging into the roof of the tree.

There was an exciting spicy waft in the air that instantly made Jecht's belly rumble and saliva form at the sides of his tongue. Voices floated in the air: soft, eloquent and lingering, as close to musical as you could get without actually singing. The words were a mixture of well-educated Spiran and that of an antiquated tongue, the original Guado language that had began to dwindle in recent years, since the Guado had seen the light of Yevon's teachings around fifteen years before.

"This some kinda tree or somethin'?"

"Guadosalam… home of Jyscal Guado, saviour of these people." Braska explained.

"Who?"

"He is the leader of the Guado. By bringing the teachings of Yevon here, he redeemed a once aimless people."

"Sounds like a load of hoo-ha to me." Jecht retorted, just quiet enough so no one could hear him. He was yet to be impressed by Yevon.

Further up was a trough with sparkling water that filtered down from presumably a concealed geyser. Jecht buried his head up to the neck without a second thought, feeling the warm and excited currents tickle his ears and away. He was in the water again, his home away from home. He opened his eyes and observed the rippling image of coins at the bottom, some shiny, some rusty and faded. A splash at his right ear alerted him to a solitary Gil sinking until it met the base with a delicate clink; the image of Auron with his thumb extended through the surface of the water skewed and strained above him.

Guado Manor, the focal point of the entire town, had a humble beauty that reflected the tree people and their modest ambitions. One would expect the esteemed Lord Jyscal to reside in a loftier estate, such as the Palace of Saint Bevelle, or in the imposing climes of Gagazet. The manor jutted from the vines in the walls, giving it an enigmatic quality, like the thicket was trying to swallow it, or hold it captive. The sphere matter that throbbed through from behind gave the vines the appearance of flittering flame, of an explosion of growth. There was a branchy awning that overhung the entrance and reinforced the manor like a ribcage.

The manor itself was distinctive from the rest of the buildings in Guadosalam through its sheer presence and eminence alone. Three steps led to a set of well-lit double doors, manned by a stocky Guado guard. "State your business." He said stolidly.

"I am Braska. Lord Jyscal is expecting us."

The Guado offered an elegant bow to the summoner that belied his build, and stood aside. "Please, this way, milord."

Braska courteously trundled up the steps and through the doors as the guard opened them for him. The reception area was radiant in its natural beauty. Two opposing staircases –of course fashioned from branches- curved upwards towards the master bedroom, while directly in front of them was a set of double doors. Along the walls in ascension with the stairs were old portraits of former Guado leaders and their kin- a literal family tree. The images weren't charcoal and acrylic on parchment as one may expect, but specially crafted spheres. Each portrait was as alive and as sharp as when it had been first recorded, that distinctive watery ripple pouring down the image. Jecht rapped one of the images with a knuckle –drawing a curt groan from Auron- and it was glassy, not soft, hardened over the decades and centuries.

Jecht gave each portrait a second or two. In most cases, the Guado leaders were grizzled old geezers with stupid hair and dots in the middle of their foreheads, and their wives were tired old hags, but one particular woman caught his eye. She was human: a pretty brunette who reminded him in no small way of his wife. But she was haunted by something, something permanent, terminal.

"She was Jyscal's wife, Sara." Braska affirmed.

"'Was' meaning she's no longer with us?"

"A sad tale." The summoner replied, his eyes wandering to the floor. "Jyscal Guado, leader of these people, had realised the benevolence of Yevon's teachings after his life was saved by a priest. He took Yevon into his heart and into the hearts of this previously unenlightened race, even to the point he took a human Yevonite wife.

"While the people frowned upon this dilution of their heritage, they were delighted that Jyscal taught them the ways of Yevon. What they couldn't forgive was the offspring of Jyscal and Sara: Seymour, half-man, half-Guado. Under increasing pressure, Jyscal reluctantly banished his wife and son to the remote island of Baaj, where Sara eventually died of a wasting disease."

"Death, death and yet more death." said Jecht glumly. "Sounds like a grade one a-hole to me. What kind of guy'd bail like that… on his wife n' kid…"

The double doors creaked and swung open and there with arms aloft stood Jyscal's assistant, Tromell: a short and wizened Guado in his mid forties, plump with the advancing years. He was decked out in a lime green overcoat with blood red arms, which widened significantly at the wrists to accommodate his huge webbed fingers. The jacket shrouded a simple pair of charcoal pants tied into a bow with a yellow cord. He brushed a hand through his green roots and straightened the curls out of his beard in anticipation of his guests.

"Damn, why are all these Guado so funny lookin'?" Jecht asked, just loudly enough for Tromell to hear.

"With all due respect, sire," Tromell replied, bowing to Jecht, "Thou is no oil painting thyself." Jecht smirked as Jyscal's number one led them into the banquet hall.

"This estate hath housed many, many fine Guado leaders o'er the centuries." He touted, like the consummate host, "And its current incumbent is arguably the greatest."

Tromell's voice carried a regal and probably snobbish tone, riddled by that archaic tongue. He was a proud man, proud of the history that he had been the right hand to. He had even witnessed the recent transformation of the Guado from a group of self-guarded hermits to a race finally aligned with the rest of the civil world.

The banquet hall was a delight to behold, very much like the rest of Guadosalam in general. In front of them was a round table embellished with a silken white sheet. Atop of the table was a vase crammed with bouquets: carnations, roses and lilies all flowing from the top, spilling out of the vase and blooming down the sides. Spattered around the vase was an assortment of fruits, especially fat and mature for Jyscal's visitors. Jecht grabbed a water melon piece and sank his teeth into the soft red husk, juice spraying onto the floor and drenching his beard. Tromell gave an awkward, but ultimately happy smile of approval. He extended his hand to Braska and Auron to join their eager friend in dining at the table. The summoner considered the selection carefully and then picked a ripened bunch of grapes. It throbbed with purple juice, and he nibbled at each one in turn, taking his time to savour each one exploding onto the roof of his mouth. Auron took impatient chunks out of an apple, the nearest thing to hand.

"Is it Guado tradition to make people wait?" he thought out loud, with no answer from an indifferent Tromell.

This room was exquisitely furnished, with velvet poufs lining the walls. Semi-opaque red sashes hung from the roof, air pooling inside them. Vines crept in through cracks in the ceiling and fingered down the walls, trying to overwhelm the intricate, Guado décor of the room.

There were three large orbs suspended just above the head height of the average Ronso and a pendulum swooshing backwards and forwards in predictable rhythm, with the sound of time. The orbs tingled with sparkling blue lustre as Braska stretched his fingers towards them. He didn't quite have the reach, even on the tips of his toes and the light faded as he returned to the ground.

Braska knew that this room was in essence a giant sphere crafted by the Guado in an effort to communicate with the dead that wandered the Farplane. The Guado had a mystical affinity for magic and pyreflies, due to their race having evolved in such close proximity for many generations. Only the wisest of Guado leaders were permitted council with the dead, whose untold memories of the ancient past filled the summoner with an excitement and frustration that could have burst from his sides.

At the far end of the room, a side door slid open and emerged Jyscal, the leader of the Guado. He leant his weight down onto his left hand, which clasped a wooden stave, and he shuffled lopsidedly towards Braska, his gown trailing along the woolly green carpet underfoot. His hair was different to the other Guado: distinctively sprouting off in all directions, but mainly channelling into a point at the top. It was now a dull teal -maybe the Guado equivalent of grey- and was symbolic of his many years in command, of his experience accrued. His beard was neatly groomed and long. The gold robe that hung from his wiry shoulders put him above the rest in terms of standing too. It made him look stronger and physically more capable, rather than the spindly man he really was.

"It's good to see you again, Summoner Braska." The Guado said.

Braska performed the prayer, this time kneeling down, as was expected when addressing a Lord or Maester.

"Please, no formalities here, I won't have it." From his hunched position, Jyscal threw a glance over to Jecht. "Ah, you must be Jecht, the man from Zanarkand."

"Yep."

Jyscal extended his hand, which Jecht eventually shook. "I've heard a lot about you on the grapevine."

"Oh, yeah? Like I'm just some kind of nut? Or another victim of Sin?"

Jyscal rolled his tongue in his cheek for a moment. "Yes actually, a little bit of both. Some even say you're a heretic with a death wish. But I am well informed by my good friend Braska that you are genuine, or at least you think you are. If you were affected by the toxin, it's unlikely you would have physically been able to make it this far from Bevelle. Please, let's sit and discuss this."


	11. Sins of the Father

XI

_Sins of the Father_

Down in a cosy sideroom in the basement of Guadosalam, Jyscal and the three pilgrims continued down the road of frivolous small talk without really getting anywhere; though none were concerned about the lack of progress because the Guado hospitality was pleasantly distracting. Braska curled his fingers around the teacup in his hands and raised it to his mouth, so that the herbal vapours could waft into his nose. He took a polite sip and replaced the cup on its saucer on the table before him. Jecht's brew was mixed in with a generous splash of Guado brandy. Jyscal too had tea, but had not touched it since Tromell's gnarled hands had brought it on a rattling tray. Instead, he had been occupied with reliving the tale of how his race came to the wisdom of Yevon's teachings.

Long before he was the leader of the Guado, he had become ambushed by fiends on the Djose Highroad and was in a grave situation, until he was saved by Maester Zane. His Grace was rumoured to be the last living relative of Lord Zaon, husband to Lady Yunalesca. Jyscal saw him in Zane, even down to his strong armour and billowing robe. The Guado swore he saw the white light of Yevon that evening and vowed to bring that light to the Guado.

For the last five or ten minutes though, Jyscal had sat back in his reclining chair with his fingers steepled, listening and intrigued by the lives and tales of his two guests.

"You hold your son in such high regard, Jecht." he observed. "It sounds like he is truly the apple of your eye."

"Yeah, I guess he is."

"You are lucky indeed." Jyscal's heart visibly sank. "I too have a son… He is in exile. Banish'd, at my own hand."

"Yeah, I heard about that." Jecht carried an unsympathetic tone. "I heard you chose Yevon over your family. Neat."

"Jecht." said Auron tersely.

"No, no." Jyscal insisted, gesturing to the guardian. "You are correct, Jecht. I did indeed choose the priesthood over my family. If I could turn back the clock with the pain and guilt I have experienced since, I would have fled with my loved ones… left Yevon and its people to someone else. But I love Yevon and His people.

"I spent many nights locked in Guado manor, locked here in my chambers. Many tears I shed in the knowledge that I would have to banish my wife and six year old son. Maybe I looked at the robes in the mirror and my lust for power took me over the edge."

He stared into oblivion, stroking his beard, satisfied now that he could get it off his chest. "To this day, I curse myself for trying to bring a human into the Guado tribe. We are a selfish race -pig-ignorant and stubborn- yet I in my infinite arrogance and short-sightedness, tried to change a culture of many centuries. Though we are Yevon, the history books still stack highly against the name of the Guado. And I literally forced a relationship between us and man.

"You know what it means Braska, don't you? In a genuine attempt to learn more about the Al Bhed, you fell in love with one of them and were mercilessly discarded by Yevon. This is what the life of a Yevon exemplar entails. Ignore one's own feelings and desires, and do the 'right' thing. Those who veer from this path ultimately fall and fail.

"We aren't normal people, Braska. We are role models, and not allowed to have the lives we want. We have to more than just men in the eyes of Spira. My indiscretion has led to Seymour, a… a _freak_. He belongs to neither one race, nor the other. Where does his heritage lie? Where is his past? If only I had married a Guado woman and gave a strong Guado man to the world."

Jyscal grabbed the teacup in front of him and searched for warmth in its dark, steamy contents.

"We aren't machina, Jyscal. We cannot just ignore our feelings. The harder we try, the stronger those feelings become. I married an Al Bhed, and gave a 'Halfling' of my own to the world. If I could turn back the clock and make my choice again, I'd do exactly the same thing, a thousand times more. I loved Jenni, and I love Yuna more than the air that I breathe. I know it's strange, but that's why I left her behind. My duty isn't to Yevon: it is to her, it is to Seymour and to all the children. If we can overcome Sin for good, then the boundaries of race should pose little challenge."

Jecht eased back into his chair and sipped more from his blended tea, rather unmoved by the sentiment. He started to wonder why he was there. Then he thought about how much he had in common with the two Yevonites. Both men had a child like him, and just like him felt as though he had lost them somewhere along the way. Braska had physically teared himself away from Yuna for this pilgrimage, while Jyscal had lost the love and respect of his son through one momentous act. But while Jyscal had appeared to give up all hope of bringing back the son he once knew and loved, there was nothing to stop Braska and him to go back to their children and make things alright. The realisation struck him between regular gulps of the fiery beverage.

"So, Jyscal… you actually gonna get down to business anytime soon?"

"Ah, yes. Braska informed me you like to 'cut to the chase', as you might say. Very well. You say you are from Zanarkand. That, I'm afraid is simply not possible."

"Say what?"

"Yevon's scriptures state that Zanarkand was destroyed a thousand years ago by Sin."

Jecht stared blankly. "Well, check 'em again pal, 'cause that ain't true!"

A rock formed in his throat. He couldn't swallow, cold sweat slid down his back. His heart skipped a beat as he took himself back in time to the moment that… thing attacked the harbour and brought him to Spira. But, a thousand years into the future?

"I don't believe you, no way! I, I…"

Jyscal rise from his seat was measured and he circled around the back of his chair. "I've consulted with my herbalist, and he believes that the toxins would have killed you had you had tried to walk this far. So, as far as I am concerned, the toxin is not a factor.

"I've also conferred with Braska, whose opinion I also cherish, and he believes you are truly genuine, which leaves only two options: you are out of your mind, or you are correct."

Jecht massaged the stress twitches at the corners of his eyes. He suddenly felt… dangerous. Zanarkand's existence or potential existence must have been a serious threat to the credibility of Yevon. "Wait, wait just a second. There's another reason I'm here, isn't there? I mean, Braska could have told me that." He threw daggers at the summoner with his eyes. "He _really_ could have told me that."

Jyscal spread his arms across the back of the chair so that he eased into a balanced, studious position. "The dead walk the Farplane. If you are from the Zanarkand that never slept from our folklore, then your wife and child will be there for you. If they don't respond to your thoughts…"

"Then Zanarkand is still out there!"

"Not necessarily. You could still be insane… But, there are many things here I don't know. So much of Spira is a mystery to our infantile population. I must concede rationally that Zanarkand _could_ be out there, somewhere."

"Yep, yep." Jecht eased back into his chair, proudly rubbing his chest with the knuckles of his fingers. "So, what're we waitin' around here for? Farplane, here we come."

* * *

Old Guado denizens bowed and scraped at the feet of their master as he passed them, while the youngsters stood on in awe. Only here did Jecht realise the importance of this man, at least around these parts. It was as thought by showing them the 'light of Yevon', Jyscal had delivered his proud race from freefall into the darkness. With the aid of Tromell, the Guado leader made his way up the slope leading into the Farplane entrance, with the pilgrims following respectfully behind. Though he was merely in his late forties, Jyscal carried himself with the decrepitude of someone much more aged and burdened.

After moving through weaving passageways, there was more climbing to do, this time up a flight of organic steps. Jecht noticed dampness in the air, with thin waves of water sloshing across the floor as their feet disturbed it. The water faded to mist, with the angelic choir of pyreflies meandering in the air. The steps lead into and seemingly propped up a huge slanted stone wall at the pinnacle. Jecht could see a pentagon arrangement of spheres about the diameter of the average human height, all surrounding a large, shimmering portal to presumably this other place, the Farplane. The bubble glistened with all colours of the spectrum: magenta sliding off blue and green like oily water in the sun.

Jecht was cautious, though the others moved purposefully towards and through it without a thought of danger. Jecht took precise steps, dipping his fingertips into the surface and yanking them away impulsively. It rippled playfully to his touch, so he took a breath for courage and paced right in.

"Whoa…"

The Blitz star stumbled backwards in utter shock, nearly losing his footing entirely. In the void beyond their circular rocky platform was a sight that would remain with Jecht for the rest of his days. Waterfalls enclosed them from all directions but dead ahead, where fragmented land eased into a calm, silvery ocean. The raging cascades flowed endlessly into depths that Jecht couldn't, nor had the bravery to observe. Trees clung on at impossible angles, luscious green blooms thriving in the raging falls. In the middle of this, right in front of them was a field of flowers. It was truly beautiful; Jecht was not ashamed to admit that to himself. There were lilies, violets, roses, dandelions and many more that he could not name. From the flowers rose more pyreflies, swimming and singing in that mesmeric, ghostly manner.

Spiralling up from the ocean were several cyclones of spinning water. Any summoner would tell you that this was a common phenomenon that signalled a Fayth was being addressed. The Fayth, pyreflies and water all had an intrinsic link. Maybe the Fayth travelled most naturally from the Farplane through these columns of water, emerging topside through the sealed statues inside each Fayth Chamber, though that was and could only ever be, speculation.

The darkening sky was smeared with on orange burning fire at the end of dusk -though there was no true sense of time here- and a black hole moon loomed, thick smog clouds not enough the smother the cindering blue glare.

"Is this place even real?"

"Ah, who knows?" Jyscal replied after much deliberation. Even the grand old Guado lord, neighbour to the dead, had no answer for this place.

Jecht felt different here, as though this place held the transaction between one state of awareness to another, life to death, drifting to the Farplane on a sea of pyreflies. He imagined that was what it felt like. Pretty much like going to sleep, all pain and sorrow ebbing away gently. Or whatever.

"Jecht, observe."

Jyscal limped towards the edge of the platform and within moments, a perfect image of his wife glimmered into reality. She just hovered there before him, like a hologram. Tromell offered the lady a proud curtsy, but she did not reciprocate. There were no words, no emotions on her face at the sight of her old servant, or indeed of her husband. It was the same tormented woman that Jecht had seen in the halls of Guado manor: a really attractive, mature brunette, with a silky blue gown that spilled down over her body. She seemed at peace here on the Farplane, though not happy as such, just neutral.

"Perty."

"My wife, Sara. Pyreflies respond to one's thoughts, that much has been ascertained. I thoroughly believe this superficial world is just the outer shell for a giant sphere beneath. The Farplane: a sphere swimming with life's essence, the pyreflies. In death, we return to the world that bore us. Here I can bring my wife back to me if I just think of her. The pyreflies do the rest."

He stood aside, beckoning Jecht to the lip of the platform with a hand. The Blitzer was still extremely unsettled by all this. Jyscal was asking him to teeter on the very edge of the fabric of reality. "It's quite safe." The Guado reaffirmed.

Jecht tottered over to within a couple of steps and took a lingering look down into the colourful abyss. "But what if I deliberately _don't_ think of them and pretend to you that I do?"

"It won't work that way." Jyscal smiled dryly at the naivety of the outlander.

"Oh yeah, I'm thinkin' of them right now."

But nothing popped in, even when he concentrated hard with his eyes clamped shut. In an instinctive way, he wanted them to appear just so he could physically see them again, but his brains kicked in and he realised that would mean they were dead. But, they weren't dead, they were alive. They were alive!

"They're alive! Yes!"

Jecht leapt uncontrollably into the air, realigning himself when he nearly slipped. But nothing could abate his joy. "They are alive! In your face, Yevon!"

"I really think you should be quiet now, Jecht." Braska tried futily, a befuddled Jyscal and other mourners further behind.

Eventually Jecht calmed, his glee more focused now, only erupting in short bursts. He merrily strolled up to Jyscal. "Well, what do you think of that, mister Yevon?"

"Judging by the array of events I have recently witnessed, both options are still possible." The Guado replied, before turning away and leaving the Farplane with assistance from his equally bewildered attendant Tromell.

* * *

Some time later and Braska, Auron and Jecht still remained on the Farplane, watching sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, friends and lovers come and go, summoning the memory of their loved ones before moving on to pastures new. Normally, Auron would have demanded that they followed suit, but there was a serenity here to sooth even the most hardened heart. Though, the guardian hung back behind Braska and Jecht in the middle of the rock, not wishing to dig up his past.

The summoner was left enchanted by the vision of his wife as he stood overlooking the field of flowers, the luscious waterfalls and the vanilla skies. This was the first time he had seen her in three years. She was as beautiful as ever: strawberry blonde hair bobbing on her delicate shoulders, green swirling eyes beaming bright. She wore a blue denim skirt ending halfway down the shins, a zip-up beige jacket with orange flanks, and green sandals. It was just how he liked to remember her.

A grin rippled onto his face at the memory of the the arguments they had about this place. The Al Bhed believed that the pyreflies created a perfect illusion of their loved ones, a shadow, a deception. One pyrefly was no different to another once its owner passed on. Their argument was that once you died that was it, non-existence. Braska despised that thought with all his malice, not as a Yevonite but as a romantic. At the same time he of course loved Jenni too, and so his opinion since her death had eased to one of compromise, as recompense for dismissing her views in life. He liked to think that he kept Jenni alive somewhere inside his heart and if what he saw before him was a beautifully woven sham, then so be it.

'Memories are nice, but that's all they are.' Braska would not forget those words she once said to him. The Al Bhed were ruthlessly progressive like the machina they created, always looking ahead and never to the past. Those words stuck with him because of the question they posed: is it wrong to deceive yourself to be happy?

The summoner brought his voice to a whisper, not wanting his compatriots to hear. "I thought that it would be so easy, so straightforward. But now, as I finally face it and I see you again for the first time since… well, it's difficult. Just stay here with me for a while and I'll feel better, like I can go on again."

"Yep, well this beats everythin' I've seen so far, hands down!"

Jenni vanished on a cloud and in the flash of an eyelid as Jecht tactlessly barged his way past Braska's left shoulder. "When I get back, I'm gonna tell my boy all about this place." He slapped the sphere camera firmly in annoyance between his hands but couldn't get the machine to work, possibly due to some sort of interference in the local area. "Come on, c'mon, you useless piece of crap!"

Braska looked at the oblivious Jecht and envy swelled up inside him. They had been here for nearly an hour and no one had appeared to greet the Zanarkand native, not a relative or a friend cruelly snatched away from him. In this sacrosanct shrine to those who had fallen in and often before their prime, he was as carefree as a child, fiddling around with his camera. He truly did live in a world free from Sin and in this moment that angered the summoner.


	12. Something to Prove

XII

_Something to Prove_

_Zanarkand: three years before…_

The night was hot as Hell, burning up the entire city with anticipation. A new Blitz season was within touching distance and it promised to be off the chart. In a shock development, the Abes had surrendered their seemingly exclusive championship to the unfancied Pirates from D-West, though the Abes had claimed some silverware, overcoming the Duggles in the final of the Diamond Cup. To Jecht, his team's relative failure was water off a duck's back. He did not care much for it, seeing as he had won all there was to win. Only a week before he had added a second trophy room to his house.

On the other hand, the good old days, the apex of his career was now confined to the photo albums and Jecht was struggling to come to terms. He was thirty two years old; a serious injury now and that would be all: no big send off, no money-spinning testimonial, no blaze of glory. His career would end in one disastrous whimper. He gave a very long moment to that thought as he eyed the bottle hanging between the index finger and thumb of his left hand.

Tonight he gazed out on the waters of Zanarkand that shimmered a gorgeous blend of jade and violet. The view from here was breathtaking. The whole thing just glowed a cool blue. Roaring hundreds of feet above the city a gargantuan arch spewed gallons of water from one side of the city to another, all contained in an invisible field much in the same way as the Blitz Sphere. Quite why this was necessary was unbeknownst to Jecht, but it sure looked cool. It could be done, so why not do it?

The dark, ultramodern homes were shaped like stupas: tall and thin with rounded heads and thin points jutting from the tops, all charged up with orange electricity. They steepled up and around the nearby hulking precipices, embedding at times in the rock. Atop the shoulders of these cliffs were governmental buildings, shorter and wider to reflect those housed within them. Some estates sat perilously on the cusp of the waterfalls that roared over the cliff faces, but never in any real danger of toppling. Others were directly beneath such falls, the water spilling down and over the windows of the houses, like his old apartment.

He opened his ears and allowed the sounds that would have no doubt annoyed him had he been in the midst of them just gently tease him from a distance. Out here, he could listen to the rumbling arch and the strident citizens without it getting under his skin.

Jecht supposed Zanarkand was based in the trough of a valley, sitting directly over a vast body of water, where places such as the stadium and even his own home could hover under the sturdy support of stanchions and anchors. To the east, fragmented slips of land eased into a calm, silvery ocean beneath the throbbing moon. He had always kind of wondered what lay beyond the city in the intangible horizons but had never felt the need to act upon it. Whatever was out there must surely have paled into insignificance. And the best thing of all? Zanarkand was _his_ city.

There was no doubt that Jecht would have been elected governor had he ran for it, just like that famous movie actor a couple of terms back. But he was content where he stood. Linnya was on the top deck with him, and the boy was making a nuisance of himself somewhere too. She was just leaning over the railing with him, silent and beautiful. From time to time, he had to remind himself that he was not alone. The light from the sea leapt up and washed over her, painting the blank canvas of her skin a dark and richer tone.

"Nice night, ain't it?"

She nodded. Jecht pondered for a long time about what he was going to say next, opening his mouth several times before actually proceeding with the next step of words.

"So uh, I got into another fight with the boss, honey."

"Oh not again, Jecht." Even with an irate tone, she never seemed to be able to condemn him entirely. He was just too charming to deserve that.

"Yeah. We didn't lose the title because of me baby, let's get that straight. I had a great season, as good as any I can remember. The clown's got it all wrong in the other positions. Take defence for instance. Why play me in the middle and play four guys back like that? I only got half the goals I got last season 'cause of it."

She looked away back towards the water, allowing her bare forearms to rest on the cool railing. Jecht and Linnya's relationship was based on compromise. One would try to bring the other into their world, to see things from their perspective and it invariably changed them in some way. Linnya could not approve of the way Jecht just barged his way through his life and the people that made it, but she couldn't deny that her husband was every inch the superstar, even in reality. Like all women, she sought pleasure in taming the daredevil, but also recognised the strain of his existence and did all she could to share his burden.

Conversely, Jecht felt Linnya needed to be more assertive. Not pushy and cocky like him (_that would probably drive him insane_), but more of a go-getter. He felt that by showing her Zanarkand through his eyes, he was teaching her to take life by the balls, without ever realising for a second that he was now nothing like the man from ten or even five years earlier. She had changed him, but he was chipping away at her too.

"See, so I told him what I thought of him, right there."

"Really?"

"Course!"

"I suppose, but…"

Creeping up from nearly beneath their feet, the boy whined for his mommy's attention. Linnya absently told him to wait for a second, intent to remain in the conversation with her husband. Jecht shot a side glare at his son, just standing there, waiting for his turn like she was some kind of servant, ready to act on his beck and call. He was a toddler in a five-year-old's body, a child who refused to grow up and move on to the next stage of his life. He thought about getting angry with him but let it go, defeated.

"Ah, go to him. He'll cry if you don't."

The words were weary and beaten, the old cynicism that used to spike them worn down to nothing by all the years of crying and whinging. His wife turned away from the wonderful view, which seemed to lose some of its lustre as she did, before tending to the boy.

* * *

His vivid metropolis transformed into a dull, wooden ceiling as he came to. Jecht was instantly aware of the closed metal flask that rested idly on his right palm and the sensation that he was actually fairly inebriated, despite taking a nap. Admittedly, there had been some pretty heavy-duty drinking before when he had learned that he was still in the present day and not a thousand years into the future. That was part one of a two-piece puzzle cracked. But boy, were these Guado merchants shrewd. They recognised Jecht's penchant for a drink and upped the price just for him. But he was not complaining; it wasn't his money.

He scrambled tardily out of bed and stretched the knots out of his back and shoulders, as was a unique ability he had. He whipped his head from side to side, the noise of his vertebrae wetly popping around the room.

The main area of the inn was just like the rest of Guadosalam, with wooden fingers creeping and crawling in the dark nooks of the room. The air was crisp and clear, affording Jecht a chance to just breathe and relax. The footing area was a vague crescent shape, the exit at one end and the entrance to the bedrooms at the other. The room followed a twisting, swept pattern around a large column of bark in the centre that conjoined with the main counter.

Beneath Jecht's feet the vines that covered the floor were broken up, exposing a solid body of that sphere matter that Braska had mentioned earlier. Deep it went, wooden limbs drowned in the crystal and intertwined with each other further down until they became distant blurs. Auron was there also, intently tapping his gloved fingers on a blue touch screen at a wall.

"Don't you ever sleep, man?"

"I'm not tired." The guardian replied disinterestedly.

"A machine?" asked Jecht, oozing his bad breath all across a very stony-looking Auron.

"These fiend monitors can tell us what kind of enemies we'll be up against on the road. A very handy tool for a guardian, albeit a machina."

Jecht's eyes nearly lit up, as much as his intoxication would allow. "See? Another good use of machina?"

In his days as a Warrior Monk, Auron had crossed many a drunkard and knew Jecht was under the influence of alcohol, even more so than usual. He was very laboured in his pronunciation of the word 'machina', and put it to him as a question, though it was meant as a statement. Suddenly repulsed by the idea of being so close to him, the guardian finished up quickly and moved out. He was unable the stand the smells emanating from the 'consultant'.

"Where's Braska?"

"Outside." Auron replied. "He bids farewell to Jyscal before we leave."

"Farewell." The Blitzer slurred quietly. "You like that word, don't you? When are you gonna start sayin' hello?"

Auron didn't even grace him with a noteworthy response, just a frustrated shake of the head and he was gone, with Jecht lumbering behind. There indeed were Braska and Jyscal in the main square outside the manor, enjoying a parting conversation that Jecht could not make out. Braska knelt down and performed the prayer as was expected when addressing one of lordly calibre; Jyscal's response was a standing prayer and he headed back home with the help of Tromell. Braska took a good long stare at the whole town, sampled the spicy air and the singing of nearby spheres, hoping to take it all in before he left.

"Enough of this sentimental crap." Jecht butted in, his subtlety typically non-existent. "Let's get goin'. The quicker we finish this damn pilgrimage, the quicker I can get home!"

Though such rudeness should have drawn scorn from the summoner and did in fact from his guardian, Braska found himself again smiling at Jecht's blunt but honest approach to life. Keeping a little giggle for himself, Braska shuffled along in the footsteps of his restless colleague.

As they emerged from Guadosalam, the midday sun struck them with all its ferocity. 'No matter how dark the night, morning always comes.' These words from Yevon's scriptures were never more apt than they were here. Despite its suddenness, it was a relief to see daylight once more. All three men simply stood still for a while, soaking up the warmth and the light. The closest they had come to it had been in a claustrophobic, sheltered Macalania Forest. Not since Bevelle had they seen a clear day with the naked eye. Bevelle, it must have been about a week ago by now. Braska wondered how Yuna was faring now she was in the care of the Temple. One thing he never doubted the kindness of the priests. Yevon may have been absolute and unforgiving to transgressors, but it cared deeply for its own. The summoner was safe in the knowledge his baby girl was under better protection than if he were there himself.

From here, he could tell that Guadosalam was not really a tree as such, with a head of leaves and branches at the top. It had possibly grown on its side, though there was no way Braska could say for sure from his limited viewpoint. It must have been a colossus to dwarf anything in this or any other woods.

Auron was pacing away again, moving to point as to veil his impatience, with Jecht a few steps behind. Braska picked up the pace and caught up with the Blitzer. "Jecht, if I may have a word."

"Yeah?"

"What you said to me in the Travel Agency… I just want you to know. I understand your actions, that is, when you struck your wife. It was the alcohol, not you. Try not to feel too bad about it."

Jecht huffed deliberately and spun on his heels to face the summoner. There was a look of anger somewhere in his eyes that he was struggling to subdue. "Braska… I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about. I didn't hit my wife!" He turned back slowly, shooting Braska a heated side glare. "Geez, who do you take me for?"

"But, you said…"

"I said drop it, okay?" His hand became a knife that he brought down conclusively in front of him, to cut the summoner off in his tracks. "And why the hell didn't you tell me about Zanarkand, anyway?"

"…If I'd told you, would it have stopped you from journeying?" There was a pause. "I didn't reveal what I have been taught about Zanarkand because like you, I believe it still exists and I didn't feel the need to dash your spirits."

"Just being in this place is enough to do that." Jecht's folded arms and deliberate pout reflected his disapproval of Spira so far. "I can't believe how this has all just happened to me, you know. I mean, I'm a complete nobody around here! It's really gettin' to me, now. You'd think someone, anyone might have heard of me."

Braska took a couple of calming breaths and then seized Jecht by the shoulders. "Jecht, you aren't a nobody. You're assisting a summoner in the annihilation of Sin, the most important task in the whole world. If you just stick with me and my prayers are answered, you'll be more famous here than you know."

Jecht took another blast from his hip flask, yet to be convinced. It was like he had picked up a battered old novel with the front half torn away but was still expected to understand what was happening. He had literally been transplanted from one world to another, and he felt lost like a child. Only this one man Braska had anything resembling an answer for him. What was worse, patience wasn't Jecht's strong suit. The waiting and the guessing were driving him crazy.

"Why me, Braska? I mean, I can understand how you want to go to Zanarkand and all, but that's not everything, is it?"

"Jecht…" the summoner took a long look at his guardian striding down the path, looking to clear the path of any fiends. "You call me by my name, not "My Lord", or "Sir", or even "Summoner", just "Braska". You treat me as an equal and not just some beacon of selfish hope. I needed confirmation and I think I got it on the Farplane. You truly have been untouched by the spiral of death that encompasses Spira."

Braska would elucidate and say what he truly felt, but Jecht had the same glossy look in his eyes that he did that night in the Travel Agency. In his mind, Braska acknowledged that he wanted Jecht there because he brought out the child in him, the idealist. Jecht gave the summoner a new zest for life that he didn't think would ever return to him since the death of his wife. Though Jecht was a drunken ne'er-do-well, and at times an arrogant lout, the man had an infectious charm about him. He was the missing ingredient in the party that neither Braska nor Auron could bring: a heartbeat, a simplicity, a soul. Maybe one day he could reveal these thoughts to Jecht, but not yet.

There was a fiend now blocking their path. A dual horn: so called because of the curved, bony extrusions sprouting from its shoulders that could inflict serious damage if gored into the human body. The beast prowled on four padded paws, awaiting the prey. As a fiend it had an innate ability to detect human life, such were fiends' hatred towards the living. It belched fire, snarling with intent as it fixed its white hot eyes on Auron.

"Hmph." was the guardian's smug reply as he nonchalantly prepared for battle.

"Don't worry Auron, I'll save ya!"

Jecht piled in and blindly swung his sword in the general direction of the dual horn. The blade missed by some distance and being so hefty carried through back towards Auron's midsection. The guardian barely registered it, but somehow managed to parry Jecht's careless attack with the back of his blade, which audibly cracked on impact. The fiend leapt towards an exposed Jecht, horns showing.

"Drunken fool!" Auron screamed, bundling him to the ground.

He had a split second to look up and instinctively raise his arm to defend himself. The dual horn sunk its teeth into the guardian's protective armguard. After the loud crunch of metal rending apart, Auron growled with discomfort. Though the plating protected him, the fiend's jaws were powerful and crushing his forearm. Becoming present to the damaged katana in his left hand, he arced back and making maximum use of the limited leverage he had, rammed it deep into the gut of the dual horn, forcing it all the way up to the handle. The beast released its grip from Auron's arm and his shattered armour slipped to the ground, revealing deep purple indents in his arm.

It took all of Auron's balance and upper body strength to keep the impaled dual horn away from him. They were a matter of inches apart; Auron was doing all he could to repel those razor-sharp teeth by keeping his free hand clasped tightly around its throat.

"Auron, get down!"

The guardian bowed for long enough for Braska to explode the dual horn's head with a vicious fire blast. The decapitated fiend hung limply, pyreflies starting to slip away from its waning form until Auron was left alone, his sword pointing to the skies.

The guardian had enough time to examine the chip and long, thin fracture in the back of his sword before a fury built up inside him. He stood and turned to face Jecht, who was scrambling desperately in the dust, seemingly unable to get up. "Look at you, you're barely fit to stand, let alone fight! I could've been killed, you… you plebeian!"

"Auron…" Braska called after him meekly as he stormed away.

The summoner offered Jecht a hand and the man from Zanarkand dusted himself off. Again, Auron had showed him up in a combat situation. Worse, he'd saved his life. But Jecht could fight! He knew he could be better than Auron if he was just given a chance! Jecht may have been proud and arrogant, but an arrogant man becomes very determined when he has something to prove. He'd show that damn Auron a thing or two about his qualities.


	13. Timely Reminder

XIII

_Timely Reminder_

About an hour's walk from Guadosalam now yet it still seemed like a million miles from civilisation. A patrolling Guado sentry nodded respectfully to Auron as he passed them, drawing a similar sign of acknowledgement from the guardian. In conjunction with the Warrior Monks, the Guado patrolled this area to ensure the safety of journeyers. Auron had walked the route many, many times in the past and had met a variety of Guado, though he made no bones about not being able to determine one from another. It wasn't bigotry, just a lack of perception that Guados also shared when it came to differentiating humans.

The guardian was not thrilled to see this road again. It was utterly infested with fiends back then and nothing had changed. Indeed, Spira seemed to resist change. It did not help when he was required to keep an eye in the back of his head for that drunken buffoon Jecht, the man from the supposed city that never sleeps. It was about time he started to pull his weight, having offered no insight whatsoever about anything that mattered.

"A Guado guard?" Jecht mused to himself. "Hah, a guad! Get it?"

Satisfied his lord was safely in front of them and out of earshot, Auron hauled the waster to one side, spilling whisky across his face and chest mid-sip. "Jecht, toss the drink into the river. Now." Auron commanded.

From his position on a small wooden bridge that joined one ford with another, Jecht peered out across the Moonflow, his clumsy movements nearly knocking him over the handrail. He took a final, protracted look at the drink in his hand.

"Do it."

Jecht shrugged his shoulders and launched the metal flask as far as he could, watching it plop meagrely in the moderate distance. "It's no big deal. Ah can quit drinkin' whenever ah want, _hic_."

He stared into a place over Auron's left shoulder, still physically unable to look him in the eye. From absolutely nowhere, Braska's guardian seized him powerfully by the throat, forcing their eyes to meet. "Know this. If you do anything -_anything_- that would cost my lord his life or his dignity, I _will_ kill you. Very slowly. Do you understand?"

Jecht nodded frantically, purple veins erupting on his forehead. Auron reluctantly loosened his grip on his windpipe and Jecht coughed hard, trying to reset the cartilage. A long-standing anger still throbbing in his veins, the guardian first stared down on him and then his own exposed forearm before turning away. The look in Jecht's eyes was a complex mixture of bewilderment, disgust and dejection, dampened by the booze pulsing through his system. Drawing his gaze back to the dying ripples where his whisky flask had landed, he caught up with the group after a moment to recover.

The other two had gone on ahead, naturally leaving a bumbling Jecht trailing in their wake. In the distance, the Blitzer was positive he could hear the low rumbling din of thunder. "Thunder Plains?" he murmured to himself, before cautiously advancing. "Guys! We're goin' the _wrong way_!"

He staggered out into an open space now, with man laid slabs underfoot. There was some kind of crane, with luggage balanced on top of it. The rusty machine was powered by a large spinning dynamo nearby, cooled and sheltered by a red burlap canopy.

Auron and Braska were there too, faced by a strange blue humanoid. It seemed to command a fiend, the thing that had generated all that racket. The fiend was gigantic, stomping on four skull-crushing feet. Each step cannoned through the soft earth and up Jecht's spine and into his brain. It was like nothing he had ever seen, with blue wrinkled flesh stretching over a huge bulk. Its stumpy tail slapped back and forth, presumably to crush any humans who got up behind it. There were black, beady eyes and a long truck that curled in and around on itself, maybe to whip enemies who dared attack from the front. It took a menacing forwards step towards Braska. It was going to attack him! "Oh no, look out!"

He readied his blade, drunkenly scraping it across the muddy earth with both arms. The summoner turned to face Jecht and his previously smiling face bled dry of colour. "Wait, Jecht! Don't!"

Siphoning out all external noise, the Blitzer vaulted onto the back of the fiend's rear right knee, forcing it to squat on one side. With all the power in his back and shoulders he arced the blade all the way through, carving a huge chunk out of its hamstring. It reared up in agony, blood gushing on the soil beneath. Jecht panicked and tumbled onto his backside, rolling to evade a storm of luggage from the sky. Cases and wooden crates cracked open on impact, clothes and potions spilling out. Braska could see that the beast was toppling over and Jecht had not a chance of escape, so he reacted instinctively. Pointing his summoning staff towards the animal, he focused a thick sheath of ice between it and Jecht. The glossy shield cracked under the weight of its enormous backside, giving Jecht the second he needed to stumble out of harm's way.

The ice inevitably shattered and the poor beast crumpled onto its rear before laying in agony on one side. It whimpered helplessly as blood pooled out from the wound and.

"Whatsh happening? Whatsh have you done!"

The blue-skinned creature, a Hypello, came sprinting in as fast as his rubbery legs would take him, tending to his injured colleague. He had webbed feet and blue skin splayed with white spots. His yellow eyes had tiny thin slits to view from and blue antennae on the top of his head. There was oil smeared across his green overalls and red neckerchief. His three fingers on each hand seemed to wobble bonelessly as he stormed around in a panic. His race weren't designed to handle stress. It wasn't in their lackadaisical nature. Though what had just transpired was enough to test even the most laid back Hypello.

This animal that Jecht had attacked was no fiend. It was a Shoopuf, transportation from one side of the Moonflow to the other. It was an animal, with no hostile intent towards Braska or anyone else, for that matter.

The summoner approached the injured Shoopuf and for the first time, pierced Jecht with a look that that could melt steel. But it would wait.

"Ebullibody, pleashe shtand back. Pleashe, shummoner, ish there nothing you can do?"

Braska beckoned the concerned Hypello to one side and focused all of his positive energies on the wound. Incredibly, it started to knit itself together. He had never tried to heal a wound as deep and extensive as this; the strain on Braska's face transfused to his body as his frame bent against his will. He had to break away, drained by his attempt to heal the beast. Auron kept the summoner upright as he took in several breaths.

The guardian bolted around in a fury, trying to find Jecht. This time he had crossed the line. "You can't hide from me forever!"

"Whatsh am I to do? My bishinessh!"

Without hesitation, Braska emptied his entire purse and placed the gil in the tender's cupped hands. His look of panic slowly diffused into one of balance and calmness. "Oh, thanksh you! Thish money ish too much though, yesh?"

Braska shook his head before offering the Hypello and the wounded beast behind him the prayer of Yevon. It was the least they could offer for such a startling attack. He had enough black marks against his reputation; this incident would be best swept under the carpet.

* * *

Summoner Braska and his guardian rowed the boat they were kindly loaned by the Hypello as well as their tiring muscles would let them. Jecht on the other hand swam beside them, his state of ill-body nearly dragging him beneath the surface on occasions. 

"I thought you could swim, Jecht!" Auron yelled, very much at the drunkard's expense.

He thought he heard the words 'screw you' somewhere, but it was too hard to tell, what with Jecht's head constantly sinking beneath the water. Another two miles of watching him suffer, the guardian thought, permitting himself a devilish smile.

"I bet you have a good view of the sunken city there, haven't you, Jecht?" added Braska.

Indeed he had. The rumours went that the ruins now resting at the bottom of the river had used to be an ancient machina city, a thousand years old. Alas, it had collapsed under its own weight, sinking all the way to the bottom and drowning whoever remained trapped inside. And that was why the pyreflies remained here, floating ominously from the depths of the river for evermore. The sunken city of the Moonflow had a series of bridges intersecting it and sprouting inwards, giving it the appearance of a spider in the murky depths, with legs arcing into a main body. There were the same tall thin stone buildings from Bevelle, with spiked onion domes on top.

It seemed that at certain locations that had involved massive loss of life, the pyreflies of the dead assembled in place, rather than heading to the Farplane. Pyreflies naturally remained amongst other pyreflies and also were attracted to water. Hence, in the case of the sunken city, they lingered above the surface en mass. They especially took a liking to indigenous flowers known as moonlillies: lilac flowers with floating leaves on the surface. Why they adhered to these flowers was unknown, as were many mysteries of the pyreflies. It could be that the moonlillies were born from the pyreflies themselves. It wasn't outside of the realm of possibility that the pyreflies could create such minor life forms had they charged enough emotional energy. Here, there must have been an overwhelming sense of grief and mourning. Maybe many of those who drowned entered euphoria once they had accepted their fate. The moonlillies in any case were fitting tribute to those who had died there that day. At night, a cloud of pyreflies would reveal themselves over the entire Moonflow, giving the river a starry, glowing quality, like a sea of stars. Too bad the pilgrims wouldn't get the chance to see it.

Jecht was struggling to keep up with the pace of the boat and did not for the life of him know why. He was the great Jecht, blitz legend. He had a hangover sure, but for some reason felt abnormally tired as though there was some essence in the water that was fatiguing him.

The thoughts that hammered repeatedly through his mind were how truly sorry for what he had done, and for how stupid he felt. But there was no way he could have known that Shoopuf wasn't hostile. It was only natural to assume it was a fiend with that big, hulking body. He thought it was going to kill Braska; how else was he supposed to react? Nor was he patronising that Hypello's accent after he emerged from the bushes. That was just the way he spoke when he had one too many.

After what seemed like an eternity after, they reached the south back of the Moonflow. Braska and Auron comfortably docked and climbed out on to the reassuring solidity of earth, but Jecht roiled his way out of the waters like an undead from the deeps. He crawled for a short distance and slumped onto the grass, entering a deep sleep.

…_Who cares if he comes back or not?_

…_But he might die!_

…_Fine, let him!_

…_Do you… do you hate him so? But if he dies, you'll never be able to tell him how much you hate him…_

* * *

_Zanarkand: a week before…_

There was a spring in his step that at times became a stumble. Jecht meandered along the docks, almost certain that this one was where his home was anchored. They all looked the same in this area. Again, he was barefooted through sheer laziness. His feet had become hardened by years of habitually walking around with no shoes on, and now he was quite happy to stroll around town in such undress.

The Blitz ace staggered onto the lower deck of the boat and stared up at the towering fin that stretched a good forty feet above. A cool waft of air eased over his body, snaking in the creases of his sweat-stained vest, sweeping his mane of dark air back. He stretched on the tips of his toes and shook out all the tension from another long day.

Ahead of him was the front door leading into the main 'hull', so to speak, with a flight of steps leading to the top deck. Up there was his son, staring out over the handrail onto the city, much in the same way he liked to. He was a skinny little runt, his blue hooded jacket and yellow shants practically drooping from his scrawny body.

"Whatcha doin' up here, boy? It's past your bed time."

The kid stirred slightly, as though to obey his father, but then repositioned himself so he was once more looking out on the sprawling view. He sharply held his breath for a moment and then let it all out. "They say that you don't practise anymore, that you're gonna retire."

It was in that same incessant, snotty voice that he spoke in, the kind that really got under Jecht's skin if he wasn't in the mood for it. With a few brews and a couple of shots in his belly, he was anything but tolerant tonight. "Let them talk. I'm still the best."

"They say you're no good 'cause you drink all the time."

"I can quit drinkin' whenever I want!"

"Then do it now!"

"What did you say?" He growled with menace. The boy was testing him now.

"You just said you can!"

Jecht had the kid's number. He was trying to get inside his head. He allowed a chuckle to escape his lips. "Tomorrow maybe."

"Why not today?"

"Why do today what you can leave for tomorrow."

Like clockwork, the bowed head led into the sniffle and then the floodgates opened. It was pathetic. "There he goes again, crying!"

This memory was different, however. The Jecht from Spira was also present, but he was disembodied, watching himself berate his son. Only by seeing it again did the memory reignite in his mind. It wasn't really happening, but it wasn't just a memory either. Whatever was responsible for this was surely responsible for the other memories from earlier on, like in the Woods and the Travel Agency. Only when it was laid out in front of him did the realisation dawn.

There was someone else there too, a boy in a purple jacket and hood. He held his hands aloft and the memory slowed to a complete standstill. Jecht could still move and approached the past version of himself. There was such contempt in his face; he could only see that now from the outside looking in. Looking back on it brought conflict to him. Initially he felt relief, in that he had discovered the route of his torment. But more deep-seated was a sense of anger. This child was showing him what a prize jackass he'd been. This was his son. If this was one of many memories he had managed to bury under an avalanche of arrogance, then it was no wonder the kid hated his guts.

Jecht moved over to his son and tried to stroke his mousy blonde hair, but his hand slipped through. The hooded child strolled over so that he was level with Tidus.

"Well, ain't this a neat trick." Jecht said. "So it's you that's been doing this to me all this time."

The child nodded once quickly.

"Thought I was going crazy. What are you, a ghost or somethin'? My guilty conscience, maybe?" he said sarcastically.

"In a way. A timely reminder, you might say."

"Reminder?"

"To your past, the one you seem to want to forget. This past."

The child had a mature voice and a degree of eloquence in his speech for one so small, as though he was much older than he looked. He kept his head bowed slightly, so that the shade cast from his cowl concealed his eyes. "You're very selective in what you remember, Jecht. You change the world around you and reject that which you don't want, instead of facing it all in its entirety."

"I don't get it…"

"Has anyone ever told you you drink too much, Jecht?"

Jecht reflected wistfully on his frozen son for a long moment, one that the hooded child allowed to linger. "And look how you reacted, brought him to tears."

"I didn't… I mean, he's like that. He's a wuss."

"Would you say you have the love of your son?"

"I… uh…"

"Can't answer us. Does he even respect you?"

"Hey, that ain't fair! I'm his dad. He wouldn't exist if it weren't for me."

The child smiled a cryptic smile beneath his hood. "That's not what we meant. Do you think he speaks to his friends at school about you with anything like the same levels of adoration of your fans?"

"How in the Hell should I know? I don't go to school with him." Jecht's childish response brought no reaction. "But… it's not that easy. The fans, they see what I want 'em to see, a side. When you live in the public eye, there's only so much you want the world to see. My son, he sees it all, maybe more than is healthy for him. Maybe he don't like it, but it is me."

"Do you feel justified as you belittle him?"

"My son, he's… a weak boy, a kid who needs nudging in a certain direction. I'm… helpin' him grow up, that's all. I just see that image of a weak boy who needs to be protected. Rough love's my way of protectin' him. He'll thank me some day. I just don't want to him to end up… like…"

"Say his name."

"What?"

"We've been watching you, Jecht. For a long time, a long, long time. In front of others, you only call him 'the boy' or 'my son'. But he is a person, with a name. What is his name, Jecht?"

"Tidus. What do you want with me, anyway?"

"As I said, to show you. You're not in Zanarkand anymore. There are bigger things than drink now, or Blitzball, or even your family. That can wait until later. For now, you must give everything you have to your friends, and in time you may truly see the error of your ways. If you don't, we fear you may never go back."

"We…" Jecht whispered, barely making a sound. He stared bemused at the child for a long time, until that same white light enveloped him and he was gone.


	14. Three Painful Dimensions

XIV

_Three Painful Dimensions_

_Moonflow south bank: now…_

It was remarkable how sobering disgust was. Jecht could think of nothing else but to punch himself very hard repeatedly, but had neither the will nor the energy. Sprawled out in the emergency position on his left side, he looked out over the serene, dusk-kissed Moonflow and it stayed his anger.

Braska was nearby, tucked up tightly to the rim of the bank, staring out on the waters just like he was. Once again, he was just… staring. Jecht wondered if the summoner was beginning to let doubt set in. He knew more about Sin than the Zanarkand native, maybe more than was good for his conviction. Jecht however knew more about keeping one's game face intact when the chips were down… in the Blitz Sphere, at least.

A clean clicking sound drew his attention away and further up the bank, to Auron. That cold thing crawled beneath Jecht's skin again when he saw the sphere camera in his hands, primed and angled in his direction. That was meant to be a video for Linnya and the boy-- for Tidus, showing them the sights of Spira. It was supposed to show Jecht for who he really was, not as a disgrace like this. There was a sense of indignity so complete within that it tightened his throat and nearly brought tears to his eyes. Auron knew what the spheres meant to Jecht, yet he was using them as a means to show him up in front of his wife and child.

"What are you shootin' me for!" he growled through the urge to vomit again.

The response was cold and steely, premeditated and methodical. "So you don't do anything stupid again. I can't believe you attacked that shoopuf." …Especially following their conversation only minutes before. "Lord Braska had to pay the handler for damages from his own travel money."

The man from Zanarkand arched his body as much as he could and met Auron eye-to-eye. "I said I was sorry. It's never gonna happen again, I _promise_!"

"Ah, a promise? Which you'll forget come tomorrow!"

"Auron, please. He did apologise. He knows he was wrong."

His guardian's harsh words brought Braska back from his state of deep thought. The anger he felt for Jecht had subsided since. Though what had happened was irrefutably vile and tragic, it was essentially a misunderstanding. Even had Jecht been sober, he still may have mistaken the shoopuf for a fiend… though he probably wouldn't have struck out as eagerly as he did. The summoner also knew that Jecht had something to prove, to Auron and to a lesser extent, himself. That's what had snapped inside him, encouraged by the alcohol. He considered it a feeling they shared.

Braska too had known the bottom of a bottle intimately as he came to terms with his expulsion from the Yevon brotherhood. But whereas Braska's decline was merely temporary, the demons that Jecht was still battling had the beating of him to this day. He could see the Blitzer's gut now protruding over his unfurled vest, the body of a sports god whose glory days had come and gone many years ago. He could see a man subjected to incessant pressure from fans and peers to maintain his virtually impeccable form, even against the rigours of age and decay.

This was why the summoner believed he was from Zanarkand: because he was a _real_ person, not a lie. He slotted perfectly into the tale that he gleefully span. Spirans met grief and setbacks with a short spell of mourning and then a sturdy will to carry on. Because Sin made everyday life seem not so bad, alcoholism wasn't so prevalent amongst the suffering populace; hardship was routine to the point that it didn't hurt like maybe it ought. But Jecht, Blitz ace, playboy and mega celebrity of the city that never slept, was totally dependant on the nihilism alcohol provided. It fit. Through and beyond the blind cynicism of Yevon, Braska could see this clearly.

Jecht bolted to his feet, not even the cloudy vapours swirling in his skull enough to deter him. "That's it. Only thing I drink from now on is shoopuf milk!"

"You're sure?" asked Braska, not even aware than one could milk a shoopuf. But that steely vow cut right through his prior train of thought. If Jecht gave up drinking, would he lose that magical enthusiastic quality of his?

"We're on a journey to defeat Sin and save Spira, right?" Jecht's voice wavered. "If I keep screwin' up and… makin' a fool of myself…" There was such passion and sincere shame etched deep into the words. "…My wife and kid are never gonna forgive me."

He hung his head in shame, the events captured in three painful dimensions, forever.

"That's on the record." Auron confirmed, switching off the sphere camera.

* * *

'The first day of the rest of your life…' Not an uncommon saying in Zanarkand. Only know did it become apt. Jecht was no longer a ball and chain around the ankles of Braska and Auron; he was a participant, someone who could value the importance of doing the right thing. 

Like an inexorable reminder of past transgressions however, the splitting headache and uncertainty of stomach haunted him still. Fitting his last hangover would be one of the worst in memory, like a ghost that could not say goodbye, he joked to himself.

"Hey, Braska. Tell me a little more about shoopufs."

"They are animals local to the Moonflow. They carry passengers and their luggage on their huge backs, trudging powerfully through the water until they surface on the other side."

Whereas before Jecht may have switched off during the explanation or wouldn't have bothered asking the question in the first place, now he was genuinely keen to learn more. "And what about that blue guy, the uh… Hypello?"

"Someone's keen all of a sudden!"

"Yeah well, if I'm to start pullin' my weight around here, I need to know more about Spira is all."

Braska explained to him that the Hypello were one of a handful of known sub-races in Spira. The Hypello were languid on ground but came into their own in their native water. Jecht assumed that the best blitzers in Spira were Hypello, but Braska was quick to point out that they couldn't handle stress -as Jecht would surely have observed- and consequently lacked the competitive streak to succeed in the Blitz Sphere. Jecht caught himself hating the idea of non-humans excelling in the sacred sport back in Zanarkand. He supposed that Jecht mark two should have banished such old-fashioned views, but a leopard couldn't change his spots so quickly.

"I may have been totally out of my box, but I'm sure I saw a machine there too."

"That is correct." Braska affirmed. "It is a crane for loading luggage and travellers onto the back of the shoopuf. It is fully Yevon sanctioned."

"Huh? I thought _all_ machina was bad."

"Not at all. You've already seen such machina as the shoopuf crane and the fiend monitors dotted around Spira. It is destructive machina that is strictly forbidden, as are large concentrations of other machina. Such machina in small and Yevon-filtered amounts are acceptable. It's when people start to get ideas about building more and more machina…"

"Sin comes." Auron added, drawing a nod of agreement from the summoner.

"It just seems so odd, man. Why would Sin specifically attack machina cities like that?"

Jecht considered that Sin targeted machina and largely populated civilisations because of their capacity to invent machines powerful enough to stop it. Sin was simply nipping the competition in the bud. He opened his mouth as though to unleash another volley of controversy but decided against it. Another argument wasn't in his best interests.

* * *

About an hour's walk along the Moonflow path and the pilgrims emerged at a T-junction. Braska summoned his entourage to the mouth of the left turning and turned to face them.

Though the Moonflow had been very plush and natural, it was ultimately dull and samey. This place was rugged and exciting, overlooking the ocean that crashed violently against the scattered rocks along the Djose shore. The waters shifted erratically with an aggression that could quell Sin, leaving the low rumbling din of the waves and the crisp spray of water splashing up onto the ground. A salty mist hung in the air, the deceptive kind that drench in a matter of minutes.

The final remnants of daylight were crushed by a swirl of dark cloud, leaving them beneath a domineering blanket of dark, ashen violet. Braska knew it was time to make haste, for the fiends came out to hunt especially at night. "First, we pray at Djose Temple. Then, we shall cross the Djose Highroad until we reach the village of Belvir, about a half day's walk." The summoner moved on to point and shuffled away from sight.

"Hey, Auron."

The guardian tilted his head, but kept his back to Jecht. "What?"

"I need to speak to you about somethin'." Auron remained silent, so Jecht continued. "You, ah… I mean, you know what it's like, don't you, Auron? What it's like for me?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I know that's sure as Sin not warm milk you're carryin' in that there jug of yours. I see the look on your face as it goes down, the way you close your eyes as the fire gets in yer belly. We both drink just to get by in our crazy lives. We're not all that different, you and I."

"…I'll admit, I have the occasional shot of courage before a battle, and it makes for an effective anaesthetic, but I don't _need_ alcohol. You say we're alike, but I'm not a weak person like you are, Jecht. That's why you're an addict and I am not."

Jecht forcibly beat down an upsurge of anger inside. "Hey, you can knock it off with insensitive comments now. I'm a changed man."

"Hmph. Only time will tell." As he liked to do, the guardian simply strode away, cutting off the conversation cold dead.

The rock peeled away, showing Jecht yet another awesome sight from Spira. Naturally Braska and mister Personality Bypass strolled along like it was nothing, but no one could stop him from savouring the view. His awe even quashed thoughts of shooting it with his camera.

The muddy waters were somewhat stiller here, sweeping silt gently into the bay. They were inside a cavern essentially, with droplets of condensation tumbling down from large stalactites. There was a giant gash in the top that afforded him an expansive view of the heavens. Echoing the cave, the sky in that moment broke apart to expose a bed of glittering stars.

Rocks built up out of the water, an enclave of stumpy fingers poking at the sprawling, broken walkway that he traversed. It was connected at intersections by man-made bridges, bending from right to left. In the far distance was the temple itself: a rippling beacon of electricity that shone in the darkness. The temples seemed to have in common an elemental phenomenon. In Macalania, if you couldn't tell before you got there, the resident Aeon was one of ice. Here in Djose, it would be a safe bet to assume whatever lay in wait was one of a sparky disposition.

Right in the centre of each bridge, compiled with cleanly cut granite, was the dominant symbol of Yevon, staring up ominously at those who stepped over it. Jecht best summarised the calligraphic icon as an eye with wings. The eye stared right up at the disciples of Yevon and all else, maintaining its fierce and dominant grip over Spiran culture and philosophy. The simplistic wings sprouted out from the base of the eye ball on either side and in between them, well basically a squiggle. They could have been interpreted as legs, implying that though Yevon was a man, he had the foresight and the intelligence of a visionary leader and the wings of a god.

Jecht could detect some sort of a ruckus as he drew in closer to the temple. There were three men harassing an Al Bhed technician. He hadn't even been given the chance to retrieve his toolbox, which lay beneath one of those fiend monitors he had probably been maintaining.

"Why don't you say anything, Blondie?" yelled the most vociferous of the three men. "Afraid you won't be able to speak Spiran for us?"

"Please, I no Al Bhed!"

"Oh, is that right? Then prove it and remove your goggles. The Al Bhed have swirly green eyes, right? Yours better be blue…"

"We should get in there, man!" Jecht put to Auron, visibly chomping at the bit.

"Why?"

"It's the right thing to do."

'The right thing to do.' Those words coming from Jecht's mouth were more than a little off-centre for Auron's liking. Just as he had gotten familiar with the drunken, self-seeking lout, this new Jecht emerged, one he couldn't read just yet. This quarrel was none of their business, as morally wrong as it was.

Jecht grunted in annoyance at the guardian's apathy to the situation unfolding and stormed over to the aggressor himself, wheeling him round on the spot by his shoulder. "Why don't you just back off the little guy and we'll all agree you're just really scary."

"Who are you supposed to be?"

The guy barely got the sentence out, he was so hammered. A young, spindly rake of a man, he was resplendent in olive green civilian clothing topped off with cheap looking metal plating over his vital areas. His rusted iron helmet was not fastened properly and sat crooked on his head. This kid and the other two cheerleaders behind him were from some sort of faction, the kind that deemed it acceptable to push around an unarmed man who was just doing his job.

The youngster's eyes were glossed over and meandered past the right shoulder of Jecht. It wasn't so funny when you were on the receiving end of a drunken moron. "Well, who _are_ you?"

"I'm the great Jecht." He replied with nothing like the same cockiness as usual.

"Oh, it's the man from Zanarkand. Two heretics in such a close space! What a cute couple, eh fellas?" This glib remark brought gushes of laughter from his equally drunk companions.

"I oughta clean your clock, wise guy!"

Having monitored the situation, Braska picked this moment to step in between them. One of the lackeys tried to flank Jecht, but backed off when Auron ominously placed the sharp side of his katana between his legs. The main man of the group half-heartedly tried to get at Jecht, so Braska raised his staff slowly so eventually the wide tasselled head was all he could see.

"You would dare impede the pilgrimage of a summoner?"

Somewhere from within him, a sober man suddenly emerged, evident most in his startled eyes. "Ah, forgive me sire." He clumsily performed the prayer, so oblivious he did not even recognise Braska as the fallen summoner and husband to a dead Al Bhed wife.

"I will handle this situation," Braska continued, "So you can go about your business now."

Like an ashamed child admonished by a displeased father, the kid backed off a couple of steps and then turned into a fully-fledged strut into a nearby inn, his bewildered flunkies trailing behind him.

And then Braska sprung Jecht a surprise, speaking to the Al Bhed in his own language. "Kad yfyo vnus rana pavuna drana ec suna dnuipma."

"Crusaders…" Auron seethed, his voice falling to a low, angry hush.

"Cruise Aiders?"

"_Crusaders_. They're a temple endorsed army that protect towns and temples from Sin."

"You don't sound entirely thrilled to see them, Auron."

The guardian allowed a thin smile. "Force of habit. The Warrior Monks historically do not get along with the 'Heathen' Crusaders."

"Why?"

"I suppose because our history is 'pure' and theirs' is not. Though they have been an arm of Yevon for the best part of a thousand years, there's still something… shifty about them. I've never really recognised their complete loyalty to Yevon, for some reason."

Jecht placed his clenched fists on either hip, jutting his chest out proudly. "Yeah, well they're jerks no matter what. They can't talk to _me_ like that!" Behind him was the sight of the Al Bhed technician sprinting away from the scene as fast as his little legs would take him.

"They don't believe you are from Zanarkand, Jecht… but I do."

Jecht's initial snigger turned into a hearty laughter. He slapped the summoner mannishly on the shoulder. "I told you Braska, no sentimental crap for me, thanks. Now let's get inside before I start blushin'."


	15. Away with the Faeries

XV

_Away with the Faeries_

Leather boots on stone tile pitched far-reaching echoes through the leaden recesses of the temple. It was not so much gloomy as lurid. There were a series of stone pillars, balls of electricity mingling atop and sucking all light and colour towards them.

The Great Hall was ornate and spacious, just as Macalania temple was in the gales of the north. There were those three imposing statues again, two either side of the steps and one to the left, leaving a vacuumous gap on the right. The arrangement lacked symmetry. It needed a new High Summoner to balance things out.

Jecht noticed smaller statues dotting the circumference of the room, of nuns, deacons and acolytes of Yevon. He failed to make the observation in Macalania, but in this time and space he was more appreciative of his environment. These life-sized effigies were certainly in the shadow of the three near the stairs, especially of the massive sculptures of the man and the woman facing each other, lovers he assumed.

Normally the high priest Sonio would usher summoners and their guardians up into the Cloister of Trials, but few travellers came at such a late hour. The tall barred windows offered nothing but darkness and the occasional squatter monkey perched on the outside.

"I have a couple of questions, Braska. What do you do in that chamber?"

"I pray. I pray with all my heart for a way to defeat Sin. If the Fayth hear my call, then I will be blessed with the Aeon."

"Is that right? And uh, these statues and the two at the top of the steps… who are they supposed to be?" Jecht felt awkward asking such questions now, of what seemed like the basics of the basics. It was like he had known someone for a long time and had a growing idea of who they really were, but had never actually addressed the formality of their name or what they did and now felt almost too discomfited to ask.

Auron leant over and whispered in his master's ear. "Does the toxin normally take so long to wear off, sir?"

"From the left: High Summoners Gandof, Ohalland and Yocun, the most recent. These three are the only summoners in history to defeat Sin. And so, we commemorate their achievements as eternal statues in the halls of Yevon.

"Beyond them, the image of Lady Yunalesca and her husband, Lord Zaon. Yunalesca, the daughter of Yevon, was the very first to defeat Sin a thousand years ago, claiming vengeance for her fallen sire and spreading the teachings in his stead.

"Lord Gandof was the next, six hundred years later. Ohalland was the first to defeat Sin in the present 'pilgrimage' format, around two hundred years ago. Yocun was the last summoner to defeat Sin, ninety years ago."

Jecht appreciated the history lesson; it was brief and to the point, with straights facts and no waffle. It seemed he was keen to learn more about Spira, after all.

The side room of this temple was stocked with various fruits and bread, and salves for travellers to heal the wounds they had so far sustained. Whereas in Macalania there was a pillar of ice sustaining the room, a surge of electricity droned endlessly in the middle of the room, thriving on metallic veins overhead.

Sonio, a bald man swathed in the sophisticated robes of Yevon, was practising Blitzball with an infant pupil. The boy returned the ball and Sonio tried to trap it on his forehead, but lost his balance and slipped to the ground. The boy's rapturous laughter was echoed by a silent smirk from Jecht. He found the scene endearing. This priest hadn't a clue about Blitzball, but was having fun with it anyway. Just when Jecht thought Yevon was a hopeless lost cause, he was pleasantly surprised to see at least one priest who knew how to enjoy himself from time to time.

It was removed from the corrupted, limping art that was the Z-league back home, where money talked and morality walked. Jecht drifted away, back to such a time.

…_I'm the one who made this possible. Not you, not anyone else on the team, _me_! Where were the Abes before I came here, huh? I'll tell you where: mid-table crap, middle of the road, that's where. I turned this no-balls outfit into the best team in the history of Blitz! And I think I should be paid accordingly! There are teams out there who would be very interested in my services and I would make that lucky team and bigger and better than the Abes! You're just a guy on the sideline. What the Hell do you actually _do_, anyway?_

"Jecht? …_Jecht?__JECHT!_"

Only when Auron rapped Jecht across the shoulder did the blitzer return from his daydream. "Oh, sorry. I was miles off."

"Away with the faeries again?"

If the faeries materialised as a child with no eyes in a purple hooded jacket, then yes. But Jecht was starting to piece it together, sort of. That child had explained that 'they' were the ones responsible for these flashbacks. Always in a temple, he became weary and sleepy. Also, the same had happened near the Farplane, the Moonflow and the Woods. What connected these places? Or was he in fact barking up the wrong tree entirely?

"Like I was saying, this is a jug of shoopuf milk. I found it on one of the shelves." The guardian suppressed a grin rippling on his lips. "Why don't you try some?"

"Okay. Okay, I will!" was Jecht's game response. "Give it here. You want some too?"

"…No, I couldn't."

Jecht licked his lips, gave the ceramic decanter a quick look and chugged back the bottle with that same trademark abandon, a huge gulp of the yellowing drink. It hit him, harder than any alcoholic drink he could remember. His stomach became a typhoon of bile as the foul liquid curdled inside. He retched a couple of times, desperate not to puke.

"You made your bed, Jecht. Now sleep in it."

* * *

Auron rested blissfully in a deep sleep, possibly for the first time since the pilgrimage began. Worry and an excessively defensive nature had led to his exhaustion; both of the symptoms were because of Jecht.

Like the guardian himself, his sleep patterns were void of dreams. He came in and out of consciousness too, his warrior instincts allowing him to keep the proverbial one eye open. But he was disrupted by a strange gargling sound and awoke, to see Jecht downing glass after glass of shoopuf milk.

"What…?"

"Hey, Auron, this stuff ain't half bad, ya know? I'm startin' to like it!" The milk soaked up in his beard and dripped onto his chest.

"You know, Jecht… you truly have a serious drinking problem."

Auron scaled his hand idly over Braska's mattress next to his and it was cool, his master's body imprint long faded. His liege had gone off ahead without them again. The guardian groaned and drearily spread his arms across his eyes, a dull sense of dread crawling over him. He tired of babysitting Jecht, but conceded that it was his idea to demote the blitzer from guardian status.

Auron sat up and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He pulled his scarlet coat up over his exposed arms and whirled his right wrist in some discomfort. The new armguard he had purchased -identical to the one he had lost- was a little tight, but he supposed it would settle with time. His limbs seemed stiff now, untested. Over the days and possibly weeks now, his body had acclimatised to only minimal rest and now he had slept for a good eight hours, his arms and legs struggled to adapt.

Auron rose tardily, battle hardened fingers stabbing at the tenderness in his lower spine. After some light stretching of the arms and shoulders, he moved hesitantly over to the steps in the Great Hall and just stared up into the doorway beyond that, suddenly aware Braska was still somewhere inside. Once more he was caught in the swirl of anxiety he felt whenever his master went off into the Cloisters without him.

"What _really_ happens in there, Auron?" Jecht asked behind him, swigging leisurely from his jug.

"I honestly couldn't say. But my understanding is that the summoner joins with the Fayth and together they receive the power of the Aeon."

"Huh? I thought Fayth and Aeons were the same thing."

"Aeons are the dreams of the Fayth; only a summoner can make them real. It's a symbiosis of sorts. The Fayth need the summoners as much as the summoners need the Fayth.

"You see, the Fayth are disadvantaged in so much that though they have the potential for great power, they have no physical means of manifesting it. Only the vision of the Fayth combined with the artistry of the summoner can hope to defeat Sin. Any other approach is futile."

The guardian tilted his head and stared down his nose at Jecht with more than a little menace in his eyes, a pre-emptive warning to not kick up a fuss about machina in a temple of Yevon. Jecht restrained himself a couple of times, but eventually acknowledged Auron's intentions with a sigh. It was still tough for him to curtsy and be polite to these stuffy priests, but Auron's way was indeed the right way on this occasion.

* * *

Meanwhile in the Antechamber, Braska held his staff tight before him. He had just completed the Cloister of Trials and felt prepared to meet the Fayth of lightning, Ixion.

This room adorned more of those lampposts with flickering balls of condensed lightning. Though they normally served to illuminate such a dingy room, it was unnecessary in that moment because another summoner was addressing the Fayth. The room shook violently as the encased rock overhead pulled away from the meshed roof of the chamber and began to gravitate around the temple, elevated incredibly on a cushion of lightning. Beyond this, Braska could see the dawn tumbling towards them overhead, the dull grey of early morning yielding to a healthy golden glow. This was a force powerful enough to move stone and notably rumble an ancient structure at its foundations; such was the power of the Fayth.

Predictably, there was a guardian waiting just outside the stone slab leading into the Chamber of the Fayth. She was a middle aged woman, with silver strokes running through her auburn hair that spilled over his back and shoulders. She leant on her Naginata weapon that planted itself in the ground. It was a long wooden staff with a thin, curved blade at the tip. It looked very dangerous when in the hands of an expert and Braska could imagine this woman being just that.

The garish blue light cast dark shade across her eye cavities and the gentle curves of her breasts and the contours of her abdominal muscles that emerged through her sweat-stained top. The lightning gave her the effect of a wraith, haunting Braska from beyond the grave. She squinted at Braska and gave him a look that was initially of sympathy, but it quickly shifted to one of disinterest. A summoner who couldn't find anyone to guard him was on a fool's errand without a prayer of beating Sin. Braska registered it and he could only grant that his guardian should have been present, but he was too busy guarding someone who needed protection more than he.

After a moment that light faded and the rock returned to its resting place, as though it had never occurred. The stone slab pulled open with a thin cloud of dust billowing outwards, stone grounding harshly on stone. A summoner stumbled out, taken aback physically by her encounter with Ixion. Like Braska once upon a time, she relied heavily on her summoning staff, until her guardian assisted her. She spotted Braska and offered only a ghost of a smile to indicate it was his turn.

A weave of silky petals peeled away just in the space beyond the open door, as to welcome those qualified to enter. An eerie breathing sound filled the Fayth Chamber, souls of the dead whispering on the draft that flowed upwards from the gaps around the circumference of the room. Cold, damp mist followed, the vaporous remains of what must have been water hundreds of feet below the temple. The summoner allowed the faint moisture to set over his thighs as he knelt down. It was a cool and refreshing sensation. He was reminded of the Farplane and that tremendous sight in the far distance, of tornados raging up and beyond the limits of his sight. Maybe these Chambers were the finishing point for the Fayth, travelling seamlessly from one reality to the other. Again, such speculation was futile and inappropriate; right now, he needed to focus and to pray.

The Aeon Ixion emerged for a flash of an eyelid. Braska noticed it took the shape of a unicorn, with a jagged and powerful horn sprouting from its head. The dream gave way to the Fayth itself, he who was sacrificed in the innumerate years before detailed history.

The Fayth was a man, resplendent in a green captain's hat and a decorated jacket to match. His face was cut from granite, deep wrinkles etched into the areas near his eyes. A sheathed wakizashi sword held firm at the front of his stomach by a red knotted bow. Braska guessed this Fayth was once an admiral of a ship, or the commander of a military, or a leader of men in general. He imagined his sacrifice was noble and without regret. The Hymn of this Fayth was a baritone, slow and powerful, thumping against the walls.

It seemed that in each temple the Fayth spoke differently. In Bevelle and Macalania they addressed him cerebrally, but here the Fayth spoke to him man to man, the words huskily delivered.

"The Machina War of a millennium past was waged between Bevelle and Zanarkand, a battle like no other in the history of this world. For you see, the military state of Bevelle craved the one thing they couldn't have: the secrets of the Fayth. Zanarkand by this point had become a serious threat in the eyes of Bevelle and with Yevon at the helm breeding new summoners every day, they would only get stronger. So Bevelle launched an offensive on Zanarkand with their secret machina army. The world had never seen such destructive power…"

Just as brusquely as he had appeared, the Fayth vanished, leaving Braska alone to digest the incredible information that had just been imparted. He was told the machina war was just a legend, a myth, nothing more. The great Machina War really happened? And worse still, it was started by Bevelle? He wanted to question the validity of the Fayth, but knew he was neither lying nor misinformed.

Braska now knew that besides permitting the worthy summoners access to their great power, the Fayth were also rewarding them with what their hearts desired. Braska had from the very start hungered for the mysteries of the ancient past. Always he had looked to plunge into the unknown, both geographically and chronologically. What he had been told could undermine the authority of Yevon beyond repair if it was ever leaked. The summoner held back dark bubbling thoughts of revenge on the temples that had discarded him, because he knew he was in no credible position to make such claims without proof.

The story that every Yevonite had had instilled in them since birth was that Sin simply appeared one day, divine punishment for blind reliance on machina. Only when as a civilisation they cleansed themselves of such impurity and returned to traditional moral values would Sin go away. This was a whopper of a secret to keep from the masses. What further truths were the clergy withholding? The thought of finding out excited him implicitly.

For the first time, he considered that the Yevon temple and the mystic beings known as the Fayth were in no sort of alliance whatsoever. Ixion had no qualms in revealing information that the clergy could well kill to keep quiet.

The summoner made haste back to the Great Hall and there was an impatient Auron and Jecht, sinking regular draughts from a jug in his hand. Had he fallen from the wagon so soon? Braska got closer and was relieved to see he was drinking milk! With a mouthful puffing out his cheeks, the blitzer brought Braska to boisterous laughter that shook the room.

"So you actually stayed true to your word! How does it taste?"

"Like crap." Jecht replied between regular chugs. "It's moreish, though."

Another chuckle from the summoner preceded a nod to his restless guardian as a cue to lead the way from the temple.

Jecht stood amazed at the sight of Djose Temple in full flow, spraying his milk across the tiled path outside. He was mesmerised by the swinging rocks, suspended impossibly in the air by lightning forces.

"This was what we saw on the way in, if only from a distance." Braska explained. "Each temple is mysteriously affected by the Fayth that resides within; a natural phenomenon that reflects the nature of the Aeon. There are similar oddities in Kilika and Macalania temples, with fire and ice respectively."

Jecht recalled the cold flames that 'burned' outside the Macalania Temple, but he'd not been in Spira for long enough to subscribe to hocus-pocus and miracles. He pondered whether it was the effect of machina and the priests weren't telling them. He wouldn't put such deceit past Yevon.

"What language were you speaking to that Al Bhed fella on the way in, Braska?"

"Al Bhed." was the summoner's understated response.

"Oh, the Al Bhed have their own language. I guess that makes sense… But how did you learn that?"

"Well, I was married to one for five years."

"Heh, course. Silly me." Jecht was now asking questions as a matter of course, even though he already knew the answers if he engaged his brain a little. Braska didn't mind though; his paternal instincts wanted to guide the still naïve Jecht through the trials and tribulations of Spiran life. Jecht was trying to make up for lost time. He was once a passenger, but now the summoner could see he was a willing participant.

Squatter monkeys met them in force now the darkness had come and passed. From the murky distance a troop of them sped towards the pilgrims. One of them vaulted onto Jecht's leg, hugging him deeply.

"Well, isn't that sweet?" said Auron dryly.

Jecht noticed an increasingly repetitive motion against his shin, something warm. The monkey was… was… "Uggh, get offa me!"

The blitzer hopped frantically on one leg, trying to shake off the amorous monkey. The animal flew off but was wily enough to land on its knuckled feet. It fancied another go, but Jecht stood resolute, staring into its eyes. The squatter monkey returned the glare and bounced restlessly up and down. Jecht imagined the little critter barbequed and his glare intensified, forcing the creature into a hasty retreat.

Braska was left holding his sides with laughter. Jecht looked up at Auron, who eventually broke into a smirk and a shake of the head. Jecht rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. He supposed the incident was amusing, though very much at his expense.


	16. Déjà vu

XVI

_Déjà vu_

The journey along the Djose shore was anything but fun. They had travelled practically the whole day, across rugged beaches and thin walkways, battling with fiends as tough as the eternal rocks that provided the backdrop. They set up camp at a small sandy relief overlooking the ocean and feasted on jerked meat and water once again. Jecht had offered the others a taste of shoopuf milk, but they graciously declined.

By the time they arrived at the rustic beachside village of Belvir, the sun was but the falling trail of marigold against a blood red sky that was riddled with far stretching stratus clouds. They jetted overhead, painted a secondary coral colour by the sun and sky. Past the gentle waves that tumbled on the golden sands were the distinctive mushroom rocks that decorated the entire Djose area. So called because they sprouted into wide heads from thinner bases, they ascended from the ocean to dominate the western view, only worn gaps in the rock allowing light and seawater through. Wooden shacks lay in peace as the sun set behind the steeps, casting long shadows across the sands.

Belvir was a tightly knit assortment of wooden houses, a store and an inn offsetting a freshwater well. Though it was lacking in grandeur, the village was functional and had a surprising amount of inhabitants.

Jecht could not shake an overpowering sense of déjà vu, like he been here before, though he knew it was impossible. Maybe he had dreamt of a place like this before. He stared deep into the watering hole, seeing his own rippling perplexed reflection looking back at him and once again was forced to let it go for now.

"Excuse me, young man."

Jecht moved out of the way of the old man who wished to tip his bucket in the well. The splash resounded on the wet inner stone as the bucket struck freely. With obvious discomfort, the doddering fossil hoisted the bucket back to the top with a frayed length of rope, aged bones creaking with the strain.

"Allow me." Auron fed the rope towards him with effortlessly sturdy arms and shoulders. As it neared the top, he lifted the bucket with a solitary strong right arm and brought it comfortably to the sand.

"Thank you, kind sir." The man said, performing the prayer of Yevon. "My name is Jiru, Elder of this village. Not that we take such a duty seriously. We're humble folk, you see. I just happen to be the oldest person here!"

Jiru had a crooked frame, arms sagging from his equally feeble shoulders. Even through his open, sleeveless brown jacket, one could make out the serrated bumps of his spine, emerging from his taut skin. He was decked out in plain grey slacks and straw sandals.

"Guys, I think I'll go for a little swim before dark."

"Aren't you tired, Jecht?" asked Auron, feeling a spasm in his arm from carrying the heavy bucket.

"Never slept underwater before, Auron?"

Braska chortled aloud as Jecht turned away and disappeared into the sparkling salt waters. "Will wonders never cease?"

"I gather you are a summoner and his entourage, yes?" Jiru wheezed. Braska nodded once.

"Yes, Belvir is indeed a popular rest stop for young whippersnappers such as yourselves."

The Elder carried himself with a peculiar shuffle from side to side as he moved, as though his knees had seized up long ago. Braska and Auron found it difficult to retain such a pedestrian pace as they walked with him.

"We are a poor community and appreciate all the tourism we can find, so do stop by at the store or the inn for the night."

"That is our plan." The summoner affirmed.

"Belvir has stood for many decades now, maybe even centuries. I was born and raised here under the guidance of my sire –Yevon rest his soul- and it has always been the same, never changing, never attracting the attention of Sin."

Braska felt a chill in his spine at that word he had not heard for a while warm when he realised how sheltered this village was. It was encased in the Mushroom Rock on a mundane beach with no machina and a modest population. Such a place could pass undetected beneath the radar of Sin for a long, long time.

"No, no, no!" The report from Jecht's rowdy voice shot across the sands. "Why even bother tryin'?"

Braska and Auron turned their attention to the distance, at Jecht apparently training with a group of young Blitzball players. "You want to win your tournament? Just watch the master and you might learn somethin'."

"Whoa!" yelled Raudy, captain of the Belvir Furies, as he marvelled at the array of skills and shots the stranger demonstrated. "Do you mind sticking around and showing us what you can do? We'd win the next tournament for sure with moves like that!"

Jecht considered it, but shook his head. "Nah, sorry, kid. I'm on a pilgrimage to defeat Sin, so I don't got time." The Furies sank, crestfallen. "Not that you bumpkins could afford the prices I charge for lessons, anyhow."

Raudy was momentarily taken aback by the cockiness of this outlander, but took it in jest. He performed the prayer and instructed his team mates to head for shore. Jecht swam towards an out-of-the-way cavity where it was nice and quiet. He took a huge lungful of air and dived beneath the surface, swiftly cutting through the green water until his fingers met the sandy base of the ocean. He twisted to look back up towards the surface. The dying sun sent beams of dusky light through the sea, illuminating the drifting corals and seaweed, sending fish and crabs scuttling for cover in dark alcoves.

The thick, calm sound of the waters soothed him, with the atmosphere of pressure above acting like a blanket. He placed a rock on his stomach, to make sure he didn't float back to the surface in his sleep, and then he drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

* * *

_Zanarkand: a year before…_

Jecht returned home exhausted from a hard day's training. The burn still ran through his thighs and calves. He was certain that the coach had upped the intensity levels, because he did not recall such fatigue after each session. There was his son, spindly and small on the dock that linked the boat. He stood with his foot on a Blitzball. "This'll be good for a laugh." Jecht thought out loud.

Quite pathetically, the kid tried to kick it but totally missed and fell flat on his back. Though he did not want Tidus to see it, Jecht felt a twinge of sadness. He hung his head for a ghost of a moment, rueing the idea that his son was trying to emulate him. Composing himself, he folded his arms and retained a look of disapproval.

"Well, well, trying to follow in my footsteps, are you?" Tidus' eyes drifted to the floor. "I usually charge for lessons, you know."

Jecht circled the stationary ball and placed a steady foot on top of it. "That shot is done… like this!"

He flicked it up a few feet in front of him and sent it flying into a nearby advertising post with a hard right kick. As it cannoned back to him, he playfully knocked it up into the air with his head and then overhand punched the ball as it floated down. It struck the same pillar with superb precision and pinged high up into the air. Jecht met it with his trademark airborne corkscrew. Naturally and with total comfort and assurance, he sent his foot through the ball on the final pass, reducing it to a fading dot in the night horizon. Because the water slowed the ball, he just simply hit it that much harder. There were very few boundaries to his talent that he was aware of.

"You can't do it, kid." Jecht said flatly as he dismounted. "But don't worry, my boy. You're not the only one." He cracked his neck from side-to-side and smugly massaged his shoulder. "No one else can do it. I'm the best!"

He turned back with that characteristic grin. "Maybe you should just quit tryin' to be a Blitzball player. You'll only ever be known as the son of Jecht."

Just as if Jecht had gone over and physically belted him, Tidus erupted into a flood of tears.

* * *

_Belvir Coast: now…_

Unusual ripples in the water disturbed his slumber. He faded back to reality to see a cloud of shoal fish flying above him, their shapes painted black in the moonlight. Something was wrong; he could feel it in his gut. There was a faint presence in the water with him, from possibly a few miles away. It was a presence that had been slumbering like him but had now awoken. Whatever it was, it had a dark ominous aura that chilled Jecht to the core. He got a kickstart from the ocean bed and sliced through the water like a blade, moving with poise despite a growing sense of desperation.

The calm around him erupted into a violent dissonance as he reached the surface. Fire and smoke smothered the atmosphere as hellish creatures slithered in the distance. A wooden beam from one of the near huts imploded with a violent crack, scattering clouds of ember and ash into the night sky.

As Jecht scrambled to the shore, Jiru hobbled over to him as fast as his weary legs would allow. "Sinspawn!" he screamed. "_You!_ You and your summoner brought it here!"

His eyes rolled up into the top of his head and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his chest. Jecht did not need to check to know he had died before he hit the ground. Though it was callous, the death of an old timer was the least of his concerns.

The blitzer's skin crawled as he surveyed the onslaught, searching for Braska. Winged Sin scales trailed in Jecht's wake as he sprinted through the war torn beach. They were creatures from his most sinister nightmares, unfurling from scaly pods and scurrying on four gangly legs. They had throbbing purple insect's eyes and barbed wings pointed upwards. He saw grown men battling to no avail with their bare hands, falling with spines lodged in their bodies.

The scales seemed to be shooting up from an undetermined location in the sea. For each one killed, the fiend behind all this sent two more in its stead. Was it the presence Jecht felt with him in the ocean? Had he accidentally awoken the beast just by immediacy?

A bolt of lightning severed the darkness, followed by a flash of fire and the glimmer of ice. Braska was alive and in a killing mood, dispatching scale after scale with his black magic spells. They protected a Sinspawn that had somehow detached itself from Sin's body and now presented itself to Braska and Jecht in all its repulsiveness. Tendrils probed the rocks and sand around it, trying to find purchase and lock tightly into the ground. Whatever hid beneath was shielded by thick coatings of hardened organic slime at the front and flanks, comparable in texture to a human fingernail, only black and calloused.

Sinspawn Vulvas twitched and rumbled occasionally, aware of an outside threat but unable to see it. From out of nowhere, the battered and bloody figure of Auron charged at the spawn, a powerful cleave of his katana sword enough to crack the scaly husk. It flopped open and the real fiend revealed itself.

Braska felt nauseous staring at the fiend's twin heads, their multitude of eyes locked on every moving target. The heads looked human, like burned babies. The eyes were just like Sin's, twitching in their numerous sockets. Either head had long tongues that flopped uselessly on the sands. What was most disgusting was the huge, quivering vaginal gash near the base of its body that pulsed with thick, leathery veins, unborn creatures squirming in a sack beneath.

"What an abomination…" the summoner cursed beneath his breath.

Vulvas emitted a pathetic feminine scream of anguish, the noise nearly enough to make Jecht regurgitate his jerked dinner. The womb stretched wide and gaping and a smaller spawn emerged, claws ripping its way though the veneer of gunk from which it was birthed. It nuzzled up to its mother for a freakish, almost tender moment. There were no eyes, only angled, bony arms and powerful maws that ground menacingly. Slobber seeped from venomous fangs that lined its entire lower jaw.

It fixed its attention to Jecht, guided by its extremely sensitive hearing. The beast charged him at a speed that belied its size and bulk, knocking him flying into a wooden crate. The blitzer was immobilised with fear as the spawn prepared its vile fangs for the kill.

For what seemed like forever, he could see the image of his wife and child mourning at an unmarked headstone. Linnya threw a solitary white rose on top of the empty casket as it lowered into the hole. Soil pattered on the varnished oak lid and slowly but surely, buried it until Jecht had become nothing more than a memory.

It was the spark of adrenaline the blitzer needed to break free from his paralysis. He barged the spawn back with a shoulder. The creature had an unrefined sense of balanced and toppled onto its back, unable to get back up. With all of the power in his back and shoulders, Jecht brought his sword down through the creature's head, a short shriek of agony scraping across his earlobes. He felt his back pang, a muscle popping through the strain of swinging such a heavy weapon.

Jecht stayed there for a moment, watching as flesh flaked away from the baby Sinspawn until nothing remained. Then there was a wet, blunt impact at the back of his skull as another of the Sinspawn younglings ambushed him. His world lost focus, sounds and sight blurring until all was black. The spawn leered over his motionless form for a moment, unsure if it had killed him or not.

"Get away from him!" yelled Braska as he impaled it with an icy lance through the torso.

Auron averted his attention to Vulvas and more specifically, to the womb that still teemed with an innumerate amount of spawn. He saluted the enemy derisively with his Tokkuri decanter. Popping the cork from the top, he imbibed a large mouthful, swallowing some but spraying most of it along the flat and edge of his katana.

"Auron?"

"My lord, please alight my blade."

The summoner smirked and sent a flicker of a flame across the katana. In an instant, the entire sword was ablaze, burning in the dark like a holy weapon of divine justice.

"This… is for the fallen!" the guardian screamed as he carved a vicious rend in the birth sack, sending dead and dying Sinspawn crawling along the sand. Vulvas was now burning from the inside, screams of indescribable pain juddering towards the heavens.

"Milord, now! Your Aeons!" cried Auron.

"Right!" Braska's grip on the summoning staff tightened. He preferred to win battles on his own merits, but this was an occasion where overwhelming force was required, to save as many innocent lives as possible. He span on the pads on his feet, the stave arcing around him as he danced. Braska was performing the ancient summoning rite of prayer through dance, necessary to call the Aeon.

An indigo, circular tablet faded in and out around his waist in the dark, painted with various Yevon symbols and seals. It was the call of Bahamut, Aeon of Bevelle. The King of Dragons soared through the parting thunderclouds and raced down towards the beach, air ripping apart as he fell. With precision, Bahamut reared up a few feet from the ground, coming to earth with a booming crash, sending clouds of sand whipping into the air. It was just as Braska had seen it in the Fayth Chamber. Its wingspan must have been thirty feet as a bare minimum: scarlet ivory extensions from its back that stretched proudly. Its tail whipped from side to side restlessly behind its well built, ebon body.

Bahamut scooped up the unconscious Jecht and carefully placed him near Auron, who proceeded to revive him with a Pheonix Down smelling potion placed under his nose.

"Will… will you help us?" the summoner implored to the beast, who unleashed a bone chilling roar before crossing its arms over its chest. There was a sense of gentleness from the Aeon, despite its ferocity. It would protect Braska and his party with its body and soul. At the same time, the summoner could detect hatred and rage directed at Vulvas, at Sin's children. On Braska's signal, it would unleash all of its malice and frustration on the enemy. Braska simply nodded and stepped to one side.

Bahamut piled in, rocking Vulvas with a fierce left-right hook combo, its claws tearing globs of black blood that splashed and clotted in the sand. It hit the reeling Sinspawn with a brutal uppercut that would have knocked it straight onto its back, were it not for the tentacles caught firm into the ground.

Bahamut vaulted up and straight over so that it was in a squatted position, claws from its feet and hands dug deep into the sand. Pyreflies became visible, sucking into the dragon's mouth until it could inhale no more. Silence erupted into a horrifying yelp of pain as Bahamut blasted Vulvas with a powerful flare from its mouth, of condensed pyreflies that burned the flesh away from the enemy's head and body. The Sinspawn clung to the loose sand for dear life, but couldn't resist the Mega Flare for long. It fought desperately before limply crashing into a precipice over the sea with a force that destroyed the overhanging rock and sent half a cliff crumbling into the Djose waters. The Sinspawn wailed and twitched, crippled from the impact. It fell to the bottom of the ocean, its flesh flaking away from its body and into the air. Jecht, though woozy could hear its death throes. They disturbed him in the respect that they were nearly… human.

There was only a second to recover before the carnage started back up. Men and women lay dead on the beach, spines puncturing their soft flesh. Their death faces were of total suffering, of unacceptance. The Sin scales continued to rend and pillage their way through the unarmed populace of Belvir.

Jecht could faintly hear 'that sound', of maggots, of screeching demons with that hauntingly female undertone. It was a sound that grew in intensity as a sphere of water loomed overhead. It was just like that evening in Zanarkand, and it pained him to know what was coming next. The sphere exploded in a brilliant flash, its water returning against gravity towards the clouds. There were a few breathless gasps, but the stunned silence weighed down like an anchor. 'It' had appeared to crush any hope that may have lingered, leering over the destruction its spawn had hewed like a proud parent.

For once, Jecht had enough time to get a proper look at Sin and not just flashes. It was truly an abhorrent creation: essentially a flying slug with bizarre human elements, such as arms with bony extrudes that may once have been fingers, it was malformed beyond any reasonable recognition. Jecht could even make out what may have once been legs, now fused together and grown over by a layer of oily flesh. Its jaws were angled and squashed like that of a reptile, with an underhanging fat chin supported by stitches of flesh along the sides of its mouth. Above its mouth were a score of beady, wriggling black eyes, each one locked on a target. Beams of light burned from them in the night sky, millions upon millions of pyreflies that comprised Sin trapped inside. A long, notched tail emerged at the back. It was a sickening blend of human and beast.

Jecht could feel himself being irresistibly drawn towards it, levitating from the ground. It hurt, just like it had before, as he could feel his skin stretching and his limbs trying to pull out of their sockets. Sound bent and reversed on itself as Jecht gravitated towards the mouth of Sin.

"Jecht!" Braska screamed, still grounded and completely ineffective.

In his mind's eye, the man from Zanarkand could see a projection straight from Sin and that terrible sense of déjà vu returned. "I need you, Jecht… I love you. Help me."

It was that woman again, the one whom he mistook for Linnya. He could see her say the words now. She was clad in steel armour that covered her arms, upper torso, legs and head above an olive tunic. He couldn't see her eyes, just those thin, war-scarred lips that uttered the words. A warrior woman.

A gentle bump on his right arm woke him. Though unable to turn his head away from Sin, he noticed something in the corner of his eye: a Blitzball, floating alongside him! There was an opportunity to score and like all good blitzers, Jecht was not going to miss. He stretched out with all his energy to scoop it up and without hesitation, flung it accurately into one of Sin's many eyes. The creature relinquished its hold on Jecht, sending him crashing back to earth with a ruthless bump.

They could sense something new now from Sin: rejection, offence. With a rasping growl, it flew up into the night sky, a purple glow crawling across its body as it prepared the final blow.

"Run!" Auron cried, vaulting behind a stack of boxes.

A dark, soundless explosion emanated from Sin's cold flesh, annihilating all it touched. Man, woman, child and Sin scale fell, the blast radius killing indiscriminately. Huts and rocks atomised in a silent but brutal moment. Even the great Bahamut vanished in the blink of an eye, unworthy next to the might of Sin.

Sin took a moment to regenerate its lost flesh by drawing in pyreflies, generating a rippling liquid skin effect across its body. The assault had weakened it slightly, but its constant gravity field drew more of life's energy towards it, to heal that which it had lost. Content that none were left alive, Sin slowly landed and whimpered motherly at its remaining offspring. Those slithering lips parted and the scales leapt into the black, vacuumous void. Sin carefully hovered above the aftermath, turned slowly and melted away into the dark morning sky.

Jecht slumped back down, unable to grasp what had just happened. There was a village, right there in front if him, with families and people, and futures. Now, all that was left was a perfectly spherical crater in the bloody sands and overlooking that, a scant few battered huts and the well that now frothed up red, just like his nightmare from within Sin. He looked down at his sword, the sides stained with the slayer's foul black blood. But it wasn't enough. Not even close…


	17. In Water

XVII

_In Water_

Belvir was no more. What was an austere yet wholesome beachside community was now nothing more than a clash of corpses draped in olive green hessian sheets and debris that could have once been lovingly called 'home'. The dawn-tinted ocean carried a tragic irony to it: the birth of a new day, but the end of a people. Pyreflies endured, serenading their former hosts, confused now, displaced and unable to find their way back to the Farplane unassisted.

Both Braska and Jecht hobbled along the makeshift path that separated the two adjoining rows of bodies. Their injuries were trivial next to the scores of villagers now sedated, unaware that they had been bereft of limb and livelihood, and of loved ones. Some were consigned to a slow and inevitable death sentence. During the battle, adrenaline had kept all emotions at bay, but now things had settled the sense of grief was stunning and powerful.

The summoner's search was quickly becoming filled with foreboding. Auron had been missing for a couple of hours, since Sin had come and gone. There was no sign of the guardian, who surely would have heard his lord's call had nothing been wrong.

Braska frantically pulled back a couple of random sheets, only to be met by the ashen, mutilated faces of dead villagers. Then he saw something that froze his heart and sent a numb shiver across his skin. Auron's boots jutted out from one of the sheets: black, ankle-high leather boots with steel plates to protect the metatarsus.

The coarse sheet rose and dipped to imitate the shape of a prone human carcass. Blood stains drenched the canvas at the left temple of his head, indicating a blunt wound, possibly from a rock. Braska was silently fixated on the hidden face.

"You don't have to find out this way." were Jecht's soft, sombre words.

"Yes, I do."

After a mental count to three, signified by deep breaths, he whipped back the sheet to expose the victim. The wound was horrendous, dark gore congealing in the centre, sticking together clumps of black, greasy hair. The stubbled face was pallid now in death, even peaceful, brown eyes staring lifelessly into the air. But it was not Auron.

This young man must have been a Djose Highroad sentry had been fatefully drawn into the conflict by the outside commotion.

"It… it's not him!" The words barely escaped Braska's lips.

Jecht sighed in relief. Though they never saw eye to eye, he'd never wish death on anyone, not even an ass like he was at times. "But if he ain't here, then were in the hell is he?"

The blitzer was certain that a heap of wood and stone twitched in the peripheral vision past his right shoulder, though he was quick to dismiss it. When it began to rumble and emanate the semi-conscious groans of a familiar voice, he had to investigate. Impatiently tearing at the rubble, he could make out hair and armour and a dusty red jacket.

"Auron! Hey, Braska, I can't him out by myself!"

The summoner nodded and began to carefully raise the wreckage away with gravity spells until Auron was freed. With some assistance and slap or two to the chops from Jecht, the guardian was able to stand unaided. He tried to curtail the blood seeping from his nostrils onto the Belvir sands. "I think I broke my dose."

Jecht knew a busted nose when he saw one; he'd had his fair share from the not so cultured defenders out there. It bent wickedly to the left, with yellowing formed beneath his eyes, making Auron seemed especially haggard. Looking at the fractured nose was almost like looking at a normal nose from a slight angle.

"Let me see." said Braska studiously. "Yes. This might hurt, Auron."

"What?" A wet crack was lead by a nasal yell of pain as Braska realigned the disjointed nose with the merest thought. The deep cut to the bridge of his nose was something that the summoner had not yet the competence to heal, however.

Braska caught himself just peering at his loyal and trusty guardian. The tables had been turned and guardian became the guarded. Braska gave into his instincts and hugged Auron in a vice-like grip around his neck, joyously grateful to Yevon he was still alive. An abashed Auron did not, could not reciprocate the embrace. He wasn't used to being touched.

"Ow, ow, ow!" yelled Jecht, clasping his back. It was overplayed, blatantly an act of attention seeking, though Auron was thankful for the distraction.

"You are hurt too, Jecht?" asked the summoner.

Continuing to oversell his injury, the blitzer donned that same mask of pain that he used to dupe officials into awarding penalty shots in his favour. "It's my back." He strained. "Tweaked it takin' out that freak back there… Hey, what're ya doin'?" Jecht was apprehensive by Braska's cold fingers and thumb pressing into the large group of muscles near the base of his spine.

"Relax." were the summoner's assuaging words. Slowly but surely, the dull, constant pain became a warm repose. "Feel better now?"

Jecht took a few seconds to twist his upper body in either direction and rotate his hips, with no reaction. "Yeah, that _does_ feel kind of better. How'd you do that?"

"White magic."

"That right?" An injury that would have niggled away at him for weeks had cleared up pretty much instantly, thanks to Braska.

"I told you the sword was too heavy."

"The sword ain't too heavy!" One thing Jecht hadn't missed was Auron's holier-than-thou attitude. "My muscles… they're not as strong as I thought they were. Haven't practised in a while, must have gotten soft." He conceded to himself. "I think I'll use that other sword of yours until I'm back in shape, if you don't mind."

"Be my guest." said Auron as the weapon exchanged hands.

Jecht twirled his wrist, flinging the blade back and forth and admittedly found it more agreeable than the broadsword. For one thing, he could do it one-handed, freeing up his plated left arm to protect himself. Maybe the stiff had a point, after all.

With remarkable speed, a number of Yevon acolytes, nuns and priests had arrived on the scene, armed with potions and blankets. If Jecht needed any convincing that Yevon looked after its own, then it was here for all to see. A layer of mystery had been unravelled from the temple… or had another layer been added? The blitzer didn't know what to think about Yevon right then; his head was currently a swirl of conflicting opinions and emotions.

The deep cut to Auron's nose was soon fixed, the butterfly stitch on the bridge of his nose itchy and irritating. Staring out onto the bloodied ocean and the unfurling cobalt clouds beyond, he breathed a deep sigh. "Many souls departed for the Farplane last night. So many stories ended in an instant…"

"This ain't no story, Auron. It's a bloodbath!" He admonished himself. Before, he didn't really care who he offended with such outbursts, but now, in amongst it, he did. "I… I never really understood what you guys meant when you talked about Sin with such… fear, such hate. Sure, I figured it was bad and all, but what I saw last night… was unreal. Worst damn atrocity I ever saw. And I wasn't ready for it, totally oblivious, you know."

"…You fought with valour." Auron offered what consolation he could.

Though the words were well intended, they only added fuel to the fire that threatened to burn Jecht up inside. Children had been left orphans, and all he did was try his best? He didn't win! Jecht hadn't led them from the jaws of defeat to sweet victory, like he had so often in the past. An opportunity to beat Sin had come and he let it slip through his fingers. Auron said something else, but Jecht was away with his 'faeries' again. He could make out the sound, but the words just wouldn't take shape.

Jecht noticed that at times Auron had a soft, childlike nature to his voice, even naïve for a hard-boiled warrior such as him. Though Jecht was totally unprepared for such a vicious assault to the senses, his intuition told him that Auron had not quite been ready for an attack so cruel and on such a large scale. Jecht was still ten years his senior and to ask a man in his mid-twenties to witness mass murder and take in his stride was too much, regardless of how tough life was in Spira.

He turned his gaze to each of the young survivors, boys and girls of ages of seven and below, Tidus' age. The needles of anger bit into him again when he considered what effect it would have on them growing up. Anger turned to guilt when he acknowledged that he was partly responsible. First, he woke Sin in the waters and then he incensed the beast by attacking it with a Blitzball. He may have saved many lives had he just allowed Sin to absorb him like it had before, had he knew a damn thing about the carnage it could unleash on the innocent.

Ruins of ancient cities flanked the cliff sides; some had crumbled and sunk in the ocean, plastered now in moss and algae. Sin had always been and was there to stay. One of the few survivors, a middle-aged woman covered in blood presumably not hers, asked to herself or to her god why this was allowed to happen. They had followed the teachings. There was no machina. What did they have to do?

* * *

Emerging from a light snooze, Jecht was accosted by the familiar sound of crying. There was a young boy tugging at a leg of his shorts with one hand while rubbing away his tears with the other.

"What is it?" the man from Zanarkand snarled, an embedded reflex action.

"The, the priest, he-he said that my mommy and my daddy have gone to the Far Plain. Wh-when will they be coming home, mister? Why'd they leave me and my sister behind?"

More tears preceded the pathetic whimper that would normally drive Jecht up the wall. But this was a world away from all that. How could he realistically tell this seven year old child his parents were both dead? And that he now solely shouldered the responsibility of looking out for his even younger sister?

Jecht sat up and then slowly turned into a kneeling position. This was the most he carefully considered his words since the last time he was on one knee. "Look at me, boy."

The child couldn't even manage that, so Jecht jolted him with a firm grab of his shoulders. The boy's eyes, red raw with emotion but beaming bright and blue, were filled with a crushing fear and burden. "Listen real good, kiddo. Your mom and dad, they won't back for a long while. Know what that means, son? _You're_ the man of the house now. You and only you can protect your sister."

"But-"

"No buts! There ain't no other way. She needs you to be strong. Can you be strong, boy?" He sniffled, but nodded strongly.

"Then no more tears." The blitzer smeared the boy's wet cheek with a dirty thumb. "Listen to me now. This is the most important thing you'll ever hear… cryin' is weakness. No one cares if you cry or not, _no one_. All they do is just hit you harder. Don't let anybody see your weakness, _ever_."

Jecht spoke from the heart. He'd played top-level Blitzball for the best part of twenty years, since he was fifteen. They weren't games, but tribal wars, with one moment of magic often the difference. Rising above the toil and the mediocrity and coming out on top was Jecht's only motivator, his only parent, the only thing that got him by… him, and him alone. He had to be the best or nothing at all.

Jecht supposed he was an arrogant son of a gun at times, but that's what worked for him. It made him impervious to those who would destroy him, given the chance… and maybe to those who just wanted in, too. As he panned his eyes across the death-laden beach, he thought of Linnya, his special one, the one who got in.

It was the hallmark of genius, and also the self-imposed curse. To a superstar, who was genuine and who just wanted a piece of the legend? In this scene of bereavement, he lowered his emotional barriers and allowed the tiniest moment of the torment and regret that had been growing to meet him in full. He turned it off quickly however, like a bathroom faucet, before it visibly afflicted him.

"Thank you, sir." The boy whispered and hugged the blitzer's waist deeply. Jecht rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassment his latest feeling. "Yeah, yeah, just scram, huh, kid?"

"Didn't know you had it in you, Jecht." said Braska.

Expertly, Jecht slipped back into his groove of total self-assurance. "Well, I'm more than just a pretty face, you know." He mapped the vicinity, unable to detect Auron. "Where'd he go now?"

"Auron? He's helping us prepare. Yevon could only spare us a few caskets. That is why the other dead have been laid out on the beach."

There was a sense of desperation in his voice that the summoner struggled to suppress. The dead deserved honour and celebration in death, not this shambles. "The most physically capable in life will be placed in the caskets during the sending."

"_Why_?"

"You'll see for yourself."

"Will _you_ perform the sending, lord summoner?"

It was Maechen, the sagely old scholar they had met at Macalania Temple. He emerged from the shade of an overhang, stroking his white beard in contemplation. "Oh, where are my manners? Forgive me. I am Maechen, a scholar. I was passing through and decided to rest here, as is a popular pursuit. But once Sin appeared, I escaped as quickly as my old bones would take me. The battlefield is no place for a man such as myself."

He leant forward to the point that Braska thought he was going to fall asleep. With a slight shake of the head, the scholar straightened up. "Mm. We must not delay for long. When you are suitably prepared, we should begin."

"Begin _what_, exactly?"

"The sending, Jecht." Braska reaffirmed. "The dead need to be guided to the Farplane. Only there can they find peace, for eternity. Those who cannot accept death when it comes will wander Spira, resenting the living and yearning for the life they had taken from them. In time, that hatred warps their minds, which in turn warps their bodies. They become fiends."

Maechen reflected on the summoner's explanation. It was textbook, if not completely true. "To elucidate, if I may my lord."

Jecht gritted his teeth, preparing himself for a tediously long diatribe. And Maechen did not fail to deliver. "I have travelled to all four corners of Spira and learned much. I have come to realise that we are merely the sum of our experiences, thoughts and memories. What is a body if not simply a vessel? I believe our bodies are immaterial in the grand scheme of things."

"Unsents?" Braska asked.

"Indeed. These beings, unsents, fiends, even Aeons, they are pyreforms. They look real, feel real, but whereas the living are unequivocally bound by flesh, bone and sinew, they are held together only by thoughts, feelings and dreams. Incredible, yes?

"This is how they retain the pyreflies that bound them in life. If someone has a strong emotional tie in Spira, an unkept promise or duty, or revenge, then they can live on until they find satisfaction. Were these feelings to fade however, or if they forcibly lost their ability to think -'killed'- then their pyreflies would disperse and they would leave this place."

"That's great, but-"

"To wit," Maechen interrupted Jecht as though he wasn't even there. "A skilled summoner for instance, who is unsent, has the potential to control his or her physical appearance by manipulating the pyreflies around them. Most unsents have the power to preserve the same physical projection they had in life, and in essence continue to live and age normally.

"Others however are blinded by powerful negative emotions and this also changes their physical projection, in a way that is symbolic of that emotion. In the case of a fiend, their powerful envy and hatred of the living is what shapes them into such bent and wicked monsters. That is why there is such need for sendings. The thought of a loved one becoming a fiend is unbearable to most.

"And that, as they say, is that."

Maechen realised he was talking to himself; Braska had left for the shore to commence the sending and Jecht had followed just to escape the ramblings of the old scholar. "Pity."

Auron emerged from the waves sodden from the waist down, his red jacket brusquely becoming a deep shade of maroon. "My lord, it is time."

The kin of the dead clustered around the summoner, expectant and hopeful. This was his first sending, his first sacred task for the people of Yevon, and it stifled him.

There were countless sarcophaguses floating about fifty yards out to sea: dark, human shaped caskets sealed by Yevon lettering. Floral wreaths were tied over the heads and faces of the coffins, final farewells from loved ones. They were lined up in a ring with the feet facing outwards, so that a gap appeared in the middle, for Braska to eventually stand.

He pulled up his robe and removed a pair of black leather boots. He then strode into the waves that crashed against his shins, and then his thighs and waist and he immersed himself. He stood before the dead, solemnly observing them for a while. The waves began to bother him, so he stopped them and levitated above the ocean until the tips of his toes made only the faintest of ripples on the surface. All was still.

_I-ey-u-i, No-bo-me-no, Re-n-mi-ri, Yo-jyu-yo-go, Has-a-tek-a-na-e… Kut-a-ma-e…_

The beautiful, straining voice was that of a Djose priestess. She led a troupe of acolytes and deacons, who joined in on the second chorus of the Hymn. Drummers crashed wooden sticks on leathery skin as the survivors joined in. The fingers of Harpists trickled along the strings to add to the poignancy of the performance. It was a pacifying voice to soothe the souls of the dead and ease their passing.

Braska took it as his cue to begin. Twiddling the summoning staff between his finger and thumb, he began to dance, spinning around and back. He was slow, considered and methodical, just as he had been taught.

Pyreflies rose from the coffins. Braska could hear the departed thrashing and banging on the lids, trying to escape, unable to accept their deaths. The water beneath him whirled into a small typhoon, lifting the summoner high above the vapour of pyreflies that radiated from the caskets and faded on the wind like brittle autumn leaves. Moans of small children and women below haunted him. He closed his eyes and forced them away.

Thriving flame changed from dark orange to an intense blue in the two urns on wooden stakes protruding from either side of the gathering. A young woman fell to her knees, allowing all the pain to strangle her. She wanted to scream, but grief tightened her throat. She clung onto the robes of a priest nearby, her tears soaking up in the emblem of Yevon. The teachings would state that they could not attain peace without making sacrifices, that it was their punishment for giving birth to Sin, that there should be no task more important in the design of Yevon or His people. But it was of no consolation to those who had loved and lost.

Jecht was moved and mesmerised by the sending, like all else present. Only Auron was unyielding to the spectacle, stood with his arms folded defensively across his chest. The blitzer felt himself drifting forward, so that the thinning waves spread across the smooth sand and mingled with his toes. The typhoon rose higher and higher, pyreflies spilling out upwards into the air, gliding across Braska's skin. Jecht could swear blind they brought tears to his eyes.

"Why water?" Jecht asked.

Auron shrugged his shoulders but Maechen had yet another theory. "My best guess is that when one is in water, it's rather dreamlike, don't you think? The sights, the sounds… they're not quite real, muffled somehow, blissfully quiet. It is easy to hide in water. Perhaps the pyreflies want to become entangled in their memories and dreams and conceal themselves in water for this purpose."

The scholar stood a long way away from the sending. He felt strange, a sinking feeling deep in the pits of his stomach. It seemed the latest wanton act of Sin had taken its toll on him and his frail body. He escaped the sad scene while no one was looking.

Blankets slipped from the bodies of the dead laid out on the beach as they almost inevitably rose from their slumber. They were no longer human, but zombie like. This was the first of many stages of transformation to a fiend. The look in their eyes spelt denial and bewilderment.

Jecht felt pressure on his wrist and noticed Auron lowering his blade by force. "They can't hurt us now."

The guardian was correct. Those who approached the sphere of Braska's sending fell, fading in a gentle cloud of pyreflies. Jecht couldn't stop the little boy from earlier speeding past him. He raced towards the waning, knelt form of what was once his mother. He hugged her tight around the neck and refused to let go, despite the immediate danger. Somewhere, buried deep inside, she recognised him and smiled before she too ceased to exist. She was the last of them. Braska had performed his sacred duty with honour and it was over.


	18. Debris and Memories

XVIII

_Debris and Memories_

On the verge of tears, Summoner Braska turned away from his steadfast guardian. He felt a deep shame that his compatriots had to see him in such a state. The act of sending so many at once had drained him emotionally and physically. As though having the air physically hammered from his lungs, he curled forward and squatted slowly. It was a slow, devastated transformation from standing tall to kneeling with bloody soil amassing beneath his fingernails. Auron flinched as though to protect his master but then pulled up sharply upon the realisation there was no fiend to protect him from. His master's regret was an enemy that the guardian could not see and had no answer to.

"Just... leave him be, Auron." Jecht said. "Give him time."

Braska blew the air out of his lungs and with it, the sorrow that had threatened to cripple him. As those pyreflies had glided over his body, his mind became inundated with memories, shards of moments from those he had sent. They weren't intimate or clear, but more a vague jumble of emotions. They had fatigued him immensely, yet he could not rest. The next checkpoint was not for another day at least, maybe two. There were potential camp sites along the way surely, but none where he could the seven or eight hour sleep he needed to rejuvenate. The summoner feared that Auron and Jecht would be carrying him -figuratively and literally- to Rin's Agency on the Mi'ihen Highroad.

He took a long, silent moment to compose himself. Jecht was right; time was often all it took. But how was he supposed to heal when he had no grasp of time? How long had it been, a week, two weeks, a month? Had he even bathed since the start of the pilgrimage? Grime and the stench of death clung to his flesh and refused to relent. But Jecht was right. It was just a matter of time until it would all be over and he could rest.

"Jecht. I wasn't sure before, but here I saw it. You fought, and not just to protect me. You didn't just fight physically, you said things to people that gave them strength to carry on, myself included. I knew that it was there somewhere, it just needed time here in Spira to prevail.

"What I mean to say Jecht is, thank you. And I would very much like if you would become my guardian."

Jecht was incredulous. "Huh? Thought I _was_ your guardian!"

Braska rolled his eyes gingerly. "Well... you were, but I felt your talents were more suited to the role of consultant." Jecht liked that. "But you've proved your versatility to me this day, so I wish to ordain you guardian once again."

The blitzer had one of those looks, lips creased down in satisfaction, with a nodding head and pushed out chest. Auron's face conversely was cut from the dirtiest, toughest granite to spell his displeasure.

"Hmm? Something to add, Auron?"

"My lord, if I may be frank. Admittedly, Jecht's application and attitude in recent days has markedly improved, but when it comes to fighting fiends, he's still nowhere near ready. If you throw him into the fray now he'll prove to be a liability, as he has in the past."

"Ooh, sounds like someone's jealous." Jecht's snide comment drew another frosty look from the guardian. "Look, you say I'm green, whatever, that's your opinion. But how am I supposed to get better if I'm stuck on the sidelines just watchin' you guys? I need to get in there and fight, right?"

It was Jecht's worst realisation, that he couldn't just stroll into this team. He wasn't the first name on the team sheet in Spira. In fact, he had been benched up until this point. "I'm a changed man these days and I'm playin' for real. Maybe if you can teach me how to throw down with these fiends, I'll prove to you that I'm not dead weight. C'mon man, what do you say?"

Jecht's puppy dog eyes chiselled away at the stone until Auron yielded. "Oh, very well. But you watch your own back from now on. I can't be there to protect you all the time."

"Aye, aye, skip." the man from Zanarkand teased him once more, even with a mocking military salute.

"I mean it, Jecht. This is _real_: lives will depend on your actions. You aren't playing Blitzball any more."

Jecht didn't rise to the bait, letting the poorly disguised dig at his integrity to ease away. "FYI Auron, Blitz ain't a game. It's more real to me than anythin' I know."

It was obvious to Auron that the man from Zanarkand was going to have the final say one way or another, and allowed him to saunter away, satisfied he had got his message through.

* * *

Sunset had come and gone, with the dwindling remains of a clear, bright sky shrinking into a slit amidst hulking clouds that were the dirty colour of water roiled with brown paint. Jecht was strangely drawn to it in his sinking spiral of boredom. That bastard had put him on watch as his first duty as a guardian, while he snoozed like a baby. Of course, sitting stationary for three hours solid got one to thinking.

For the first time since the start of the pilgrimage, he was alone with the foreign world that he had unceremoniously been dumped into. Egad, it was dull. At the same time, there was a sense of peace, something natural and honest. Only Sin waiting and watching in the waters far off shore threatened the tranquillity.

He acknowledged that Zanarkand was fast-paced, even illusory at times, only those magical sunrises taking him to a place that seemed real. But that was the nature of his life; the outside and the inside rarely matched. With Spira, what you saw was what you got, in the places and the people. He noticed this most prominently in Belvir, before it was reduced to debris and memories.

Jecht was brought shuddering back to full consciousness by a rasping, nasal snarl. He may have nodded off for a little while, he wasn't sure. About twenty metres, dead ahead of him was a fiend, its knurled spine erupting from its skin in the bright moonlight.

It prowled menacingly on four clawed feet, red scales blazing across its squat body. It was reptilian with a thick tail and black horns jutting from either side of its head. Eyes sizzled white hot in the darkness as its tongue slapped ravenously from side-to-side. Its skull and long back were enforced by think bone that erupted from the leathery flesh.

The beast could smell human flesh, but its poor vision combined with a heaven sent cloud that smothered the moon meant Jecht was well-hidden, if he didn't make any sudden moves. The blitzer slowly lowered his right hand and gave the dozing Auron a little tug by the jacket. Not even a stir, so he carefully scooped the resting longsword into his grasp instead, steel gently scraping against wet, coarse rock. His taped fingers locked tightly around the hilt, the blade trembling through the tension in his arm. He took a sharp intake of breath as the fiend hustled its way towards that smell, unwilling to make even the slightest peep. He didn't even blink.

The fiend eventually grew disinterested and following an uppish scoff, moved away in search of its next quarry. As it trundled on, Jecht pondered the words of that old fart back in Belvir. Fiends were just men, women and children that had died and their souls had mutated somehow to reflect how much they hated the living. They were caught in the system of life and death, dead but not resting. The blitzer couldn't possibly begin to empathise with them, nor could he understand why they would possibly harbour such ill will towards the living. It was indeed another of life's mysteries that up until now he did not care for.

* * *

The fire flickering at old, sandy timber desperately bit into whatever wood it could manage in its struggle to survive. The heat supplied was inadequate to Jecht and Auron who were huddled closely around, rubbing their hands briskly to tease out what body heat they could. The canvas of their two-man tent had sagged to the ground now, pounded into submission by the crosswinds of the night. Neither man had frequented it simultaneously; Jecht had began the watch and Auron had begrudgingly finished it after what was his first decent rest for days.

The darkness had begun to alleviate and the birth of a new morrow was upon them as Braska perched on the lip of a bald, rocky cliff. It offered him a sprawling view of the ocean, somewhat calm and twinkling with the young light of the presently obscured sun. A dozy Djose Temple overlooked the smote ruins of Belvir to the west. It was hushed now, with not a single soul remaining. Most who had survived sought refuge in the nearby temple, though some had braved testing trips to the Moonflow to the north and Luca in the south in search of aid.

Braska did not know what he was thinking at that moment. He wasn't sure he was supposed to think or feel anything. It was indeed harrowing, but it was gone. This, Braska knew, was how the persecuted Al Bhed had fought on bravely all these centuries. Though they were quick to banish the memory of their dead, they were equally adept at banishing sorrow, often inflicted upon them by their fellow man.

The summoner understood this not only through Jenni, but through several visits to the Al Bhed's Home island of Navika. He had often been away from Bevelle for weeks at a time and become accustomed to their traditions and culture. It was based on a unity and resilience of which the surface Yevon could not begin to scratch.

If only all people knew what he knew, believed him when he professed what he knew... then Sin would be destroyed, he'd wager. Braska fantasised about a time when arm-in-arm, the Al Bhed would batter Sin with their formidable machina armies and the Aeons would trample it out of existence for good. His shoulders sank when he considered how far away such potential was to being realised, if indeed it would ever be allowed. If the Al Bhed had altered his way of thinking, then surely some of Jecht had shaped that train of thought also. Instead of the ostensibly meek and stealthy pilgrimages, a full-scale war against Sin involving all the peoples of Spira in unison... simple on paper, impossible in reality.

Jecht held his arms aloft and yawned deeply, his mouth a twisted chasm. Time had not been kind to him recently, either.

"What's wrong? Feeling tired?" Auron asked with the ever-so slight hint of satisfaction.

"Me? 'Course not..." he yawned again, clearly worn down by his enforced abstinence from sleep. "Well, maybe just a little."

"I was taught to not be choosy when it came to where and when you took a nap, as long as you were certain it was safe. Though, I suppose it doesn't apply now that we have a summoner to guard." Once again, Auron had to remind himself he was not a Warrior Monk.

"Hey, why don't Braska ever stand watch?"

"Come on, Jecht. You saw what happened in Belvir, the way the sending... affected him. That was just one of the many burdens a summoner has to bear. As a guardian, it is my -and your- duty to shoulder as much of that responsibility as possible."

Jecht listened attentively and hummed in accord. "Jecht, you would do well to learn that the guardian... ultimately... is unimportant. Only the summoner matters." He broke off to steal a glance at his master, who continued to just stare out at the ocean. "For the summoner alone is the one who can stop Sin. They are our only hope, our only light."

Jecht would struggle to learn that lesson. Though he would offer his loyalty to Braska, it wouldn't stop him from being the star of the show. He'd help the summoner, but wouldn't do it quietly.

"What do you think of Braska, Auron?"

"He is my lord." was the taciturn response.

"Ah, come on. He's more than just your boss."

"He is my lord." Auron repeated, with the same guardedness. "I follow him because I have great respect for his intentions. If it means offering my life to ensure he succeeds then I will do so gladly."

Jecht wondered how many times the guardian had practised such twaddle in front of a mirror. "Each to their own, buddy."

He became silent, something he was quite comfortable with at this present moment. Without truly knowing him, it would be easy to envisage Jecht as a total blabbermouth who exclaimed his greatness at every single turn. From press interviews to sphere recordings and other such snippets, an assumption on his character would be drawn by many thousands of people. The gaps, the other twenty three hours of the day were beyond most, however.

Amongst many of the things he couldn't bring himself to say was that the great Jecht was not a black and white superstar... the lines blurred at times. He only spoke when he had something to say and even held a lot inside. Being in Spira reminded of him of the person inside that given the circumstances, could be freed.

"...Keep up the good work." said Auron. The words shattered the silence and Jecht's thoughts, not in their tone but in their meaning. Two compliments from Auron inside twenty four hours?

"What're you talkin' about now?"

"You shouldn't worry if you can help it. You need to maintain your confidence so Braska doesn't have to worry. That's why he brought you here, I think." The guardian clenched his jaw and nibbled at his lips in an increasing discomfort. "You're useful to have around." he practically whispered.

"I heard that, Auron."


	19. Limitations

XIX

_Limitations_

Behindhand, the three pilgrims emerged from the cragged dregs of the Djose Highroad. This new Highroad, Mi'ihen, contrarily was plush with the blooms of spring that had thrived through summer but were starting to lose a little of their lustre in the autumn.

Alas, there was no respite to be found here. The checkpoint was manned by several Crusaders and none seemed the charitable sort. The gateway was the gutted husk of an old stone balcony or hall. Standing crocked on four askance legs, it was reminiscent of the shell of a crab. One of the legs was fractured, calling its structural integrity into question, though being deeply sunk into the flank of a nearby cliff, one could imagine it being quite safe. There was rusty old fencing that ran the parameter, leaving this awning the only way in.

Initially the sentry at the gate had been sceptical to let them through, but after Auron pointed out in no uncertain terms that it was a summoner on a holy pilgrimage of Yevon he was addressing, the guard beckoned them through somewhat sheepishly.

The sun pulsed down from high above, approaching the peak of its ascension. Midday loomed and Jecht's stomach grumbled louder than he ever could. Auron acknowledged it, being rather peckish himself. Rin's was another hour or so by his estimation, having patrolled the Mi'ihen Highroad once or twice before in a previous life.

There were two paths before them: one to the south and a more rural, grown over path south east that led down into places unbeknownst. The summoner consulted his map: a tattered, dog-eared thing with the colour of old wood that had faded in time. It indicated that the new road was directly south, so he chose the former option with only an equivocal degree of confidence.

It was a meandering path that thankfully wasn't so suffused with fiends as it would had they arrived in the evening. Those that did bother them were alone and relatively easy pickings, despite the deep-set fatigue that filtered three to all three members of the party. Only Auron, the junior of the team by a clear decade, had retained enough energy to fight with something like vigour and precision.

The view from here was wonderful, with the eastern ocean leading to islands and places that could only be fulfilled in the imagination. A little bit closer to them were dumpy clay sediment hills, alternating from even strips of hearty red to pale white and all the shades in between, tumbling all the way down into the old road. On the verges parallel with the paths were remains of machina buildings, with that familiar, curved architecture displayed in a variety of vibrant blues, greens and golds.

The paths grooved by thousands upon thousands of wandering feet were linked by sturdy wooden bridges that overlooked the old road. The fiends in the valley lurked in groups and seemed more of a challenge, and so Braska's choice was vindicated. It was very close, with thickets blocking the way and precipices almost leaning in over the top of anyone who was foolish enough to be down there. There were yet more ruins, shells of what was once a machina civilisation. Whereas people died and their bodies left the world, these carcasses remained forevermore, keeping the pain sharp and constant. Sin would not allow Spira to forget so easily.

"They really pull together, huh?" Jecht thought aloud as he picked up the rear of the group. "In Zanarkand, the people stand on each other's heads to get a foot up, you know, but here they go through everything together. As soon as Sin hit that place, the survivors were rebuilding, like a reflex action, gettin' on with their lives."

Braska hummed in feigned absence, not entirely happy to hear about the dark side of Zanarkand, even from one of its own sons. He wanted the fairytale to endure.

* * *

Beneath the shade of their tent, Jecht continued to ruminate the events of the past couple of days. Putting his pride on the shelf for a moment, he knew he was in no shape to take on Sin. Also, his knowledge of Spira, though improving a little, was still nothing like adequate. He knew a man who was so skilful with a blade he could probably cut a hair evenly down the middle and another who could cast bolts of lightning from his hands at the merest whim. What were once mere parlour tricks to him were increasingly of genuine merit. He envied them, wanted what they had.

"I want to know more." he uttered idly, doodling childish diagrams in the dust with a twig. "I don't know enough."

"What do you want to know?" asked Auron.

"How about... Aeons? I mean, I think I know what they are... I guess I want to know more about the summoners, how it's them who get to summon the Aeons and no one else, it seems."

"A mystery." the guardian replied with a shrug of the shoulders, saving his lord the bother of explaining it. "It would seem that only a few lucky ones are born with the summoning talent."

"_Born_ with it?"

"Mm. It seems to be hereditary, but if the potential is not spotted from an early age, then the summoner may struggle to firstly become a fully-fledged summoner and then to be able to defeat Sin, which is all that matters in the end."

Auron's words forced Braska to reflect on his own very late introduction to summoning. To that day, he was certain his sheer will alone allowed him to link with the Fayth and receive the power of Bahamut. There was no conventional way a thirty-five year old man could just go down the summoning path as he saw fit. There was something that the Fayth saw in him beyond the ordinary that they deemed worthy.

"Some black mages, though able to summon elements, cannot summon aeons." Auron continued. "Summoners you feel can always do both."

"So, magic and aeons, it's all basically the same principle?"

"Correct." said Braska. "Magic and summoning are fundamentally about control over the pyreflies around us. They are usually invisible, but reveal themselves in focused bursts of light when a fiend is killed or during a Sending. They are always there, but are so condensed during such times they become visible. A fact beyond common knowledge. Only the priests and the summoner's entourage know this."

"Could I... learn how to manipulate pyreflies?"

"Of course. Anyone can. It's all a matter of will. For instance, fire. In your mind, you have to think about _nothing_ but the flame. Think about its colours, the warmth, your pain if you touched it. When that flame is so strong in your mind that you'd swear it was real, open your eyes, channel the flame and it will appear where you wish."

"Just like that, huh?"

"Try it, on that wooden post over there."

Auron leered sceptically with a wry shake of the head.

"Yeah, laugh it up. I'll show you!"

Jecht squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated for a moment, but when he opened his eyes, nothing happened. The wooden post just stared back at him blankly. "Abracadabra! Voilà! Fly flame, fly! Ah, it's no use."

"You're trying too hard. Allow me."

The summoner took his time. To the outside, it appeared he was merely deliberating to demonstrate how it was supposed to be done, but Braska knew he was tired, deeply inside. It masked his exhaustion. His eyes fluttered open, preceding the post exploding in a violent blaze.

"Whoa!"

"And to put it out… think the same thoughts about the ice, its opposing element. Quench the flame."

A little more gently, ice glittered from his fingers and drifted towards the burning stake, freezing the fire until it was suffocated, leaving the wood cinched beneath. "Now, try again."

As Jecht closed his eyes again and tried to repel the outside world, Braska's words softly entered his ears. "Focus. Everything else in the world doesn't matter, just revolving around the fire. Even you aren't important for that moment, only the fire."

The man from Zanarkand was beginning to understand, losing the sharpness of reality and becoming immersed in the solitary dream of a flame flickering in the darkness of his subconscious, which grew to a health bonfire. He managed to contain it and keep it totally believable in his mind. He was patient and waited for many seconds before finally allowing Spira back in.

The tiniest of dribbling flames dribbled off the post, not even enough to find bite in the wood. "Ha, I did it! Piece of cake!"

"Yes, you… sure did!"

Jecht rocked backwards, hammered by a dizzying fatigue.

"Yes, the weariness you feel is the effect mana has on a novice caster." Braska added. "It takes from their mind, drains them. Magic is an art form, just like swordplay, or even Blitzball. The best mages don't even close their eyes, that's how single minded they are. They can turn it on and off like a switch. The repetition is natural and thus the draining effect is minimal. They can do anything they can put their minds to."

"Anything?"

"Anything." he affirmed.

* * *

Finally, they had reached their safe haven: Rin's travel agency, Mi'ihen Highroad branch. It was dusk now, much later than the one hour from midday as Auron had predicted. Once more, they had fallen way behind schedule... but it was to be expected. These three seemed to move stealthily beneath the radar of Yevon, drawing little attention to themselves in general and carrying no expectation from the people. It was preferable that way.

Somehow, Rin had got there before they did and was his same pleasantly functional self as he met them. "Why walk when you can ride?" he said when queried about it. He also warned of a large fiend that had been prowling the local area, with a taste for Chocobos. Auron had dismissed such diversions it as a waste of their time, but Braska and Jecht were open to the idea of helping out the young Al Bhed.

More stunning scenery opened itself to those who had a moment to stop and look. Auron was outside, practising alone before the falling sun. From the entrance to the agency was a rugged bank that had been skewered by small shards of debris from long ago. It overlooked a thin strip of a beach that in turn eased into glittering waters.

The sun melted away behind an immense stone arch left standing alone in the far distance. People of modern day Spira couldn't even speculate on what such structures were or their uses. All they knew that in a strange way, the past was in fact the future and today was a mere shadow. Time had worked backwards; technology had imploded in on itself and Spira was caught in a loop.

There was a gentle breeze, but it did little to quell the stifling early evening heat. The guardian was stripped of his jacket and breastplate, which he had stacked neatly to one side, leaving him bare chested. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and torso, mingling with the wiry, black hairs on his chest and abdomen, soaking up in the long hair that flowed down his back. There was a look of total concentration on his face as he clasped his katana sword firmly in his hands.

"Hey, Auron. What're you doin'?" asked a logy Jecht, who had come outside for some air. "Auron!"

Auron did not jolt suddenly back into life, but shifted slightly to indicate he had indeed drifted away to another place. "Oh, my apologies. I am practising the kata."

"Huh?"

"Part of training in the Warrior Monks. You can practice alone, or in pairs. The kata is a series of set manoeuvres that if performed perfectly, may enhance the expertise of the participant."

Auron straightened his body and pivoted on one foot so he was now facing Jecht. "I had an advantage over most of the Warrior Monks in that I was tutored by the late Grand Master Iaidō himself."

"Yeah? What made you so special?"

A spark of anger rode Auron's brow. He half-turned away from him and took another look at the sunset. "I was... groomed from a very early age, to be the best. I was given opportunities that none of the others had. I was resented by some for it."

Jecht exhaled a deep grunt. The two men had both been on the same path, but in different directions, with different motivations. Jecht had not been born with a silver spoon in his mouth like the guardian and had to work with what he had for his success. He vaguely recalled times when he had been bullied at school by bigger boys, and the vow he had made to them all: that he would become the best and that one day they would have to address him as "The Great Jecht". He had been possessed by that singular passion, that ultimate goal. Maybe he had achieved it way too soon for his ego to handle. Once he had reached the zenith and proved his doubters wrong, there was nowhere left for him to go. A mercurial talent that exploded upwards into the stratosphere, he had possibly burned out too quickly.

As he looked at Auron, with that look of regret on his face that Jecht saw half the time he looked in a mirror, he recognised a strong sense of what might have been. Whereas Jecht had tried any and everything to prolong his success story, Auron had taken all he had achieved and threw it down the toilet to satisfy his ideals.

"Let me see it." Jecht asked.

"Excuse me?"

"The, uh, the kata. I want to see how it's done."

"Hmph. Very well."

Auron raised the sword upwards so that the cool steel of the hilt rested under his brow. He breathed out all his negative energy and began. Squatting low, he brought the sharp edge up through his imaginary target. With the elegance of a flamingo, he brought the pad of his left foot onto his right knee and held it there with the katana adjacent to his head and the fingers of his left hand jutting out in front of him. Twisting at the same time, he leant forward so that gravity took him down and through, the blade stabbing forwards. His powerful frame allowed him to wield the rather bulky weapon with one hand quite comfortably. Another swift swivel on the ball of his right foot brought his left arcing through and the sword too in a powerful forehand cleave.

Jecht simply watched in admiration as the guardian completed another fifty one moves of similar assurance before coming to a standstill. For the first time since the pilgrimage began, Auron performed the prayer of Yevon, on one knee, to salute his old sensei.

"Your turn."

"Huh?"

Auron placed the katana on his flat palms as an offering to the man from Zanarkand. He sucked his teeth and rolled his tongue in his mouth before accepting. "What the Hell."

He brought the sword up to the bridge of his nose just as Auron had, something the guardian noted as a mistake. Lord Iaidō's greatest lesson was that while the kata was essentially repetition, one should never forget that it was an individual performing it. The student owed nothing to the art of fighting, but had to use it as a tool, as a well of information to improve himself. The day one gave lost their sense of individuality was the day one sacrificed his potential.

Jecht flung the sword up in the same way Auron had, but rather clumsily, producing a knock-on effect for the next step. He stood crane-like just as Auron had, but could feel the sword unbalancing him, the muscles in his back and shoulders unable to compensate. He was titling backwards.

"Oh, shi--!"

The blitzer toppled hopelessly, landing in a crumpled heap on the bank. Auron exploded in a volley of lung-bursting laughter. It was so amusing that he could feel tears streaming down his cheeks. From his grounded position, Jecht began to chuckle at his own demise and seeing Auron literally crying made him cry with laughter as well.

From the relative seclusion of the doorway to the agency, Braska smiled deeply, happy that the two guardians were finally opening up to each other. Maybe, just maybe, things were starting to come together.

* * *

It was the small hours of the morning now, approaching the sunrise. Jecht was very careful not to disturb Braska in a contented deep sleep and skilfully evaded the floored Auron before working his way outside. He was sat back on the bank overlooking the ruined arch, with his legs dangling over the edge. It was a little chilly, with no cloud cover and Jecht could see the twinkling stars and the bright white moon that was nearly full, painting a thin, ghostly light across the whole area.

The Hymn came from his lips naturally as the scene reminded him of the countless times he had done this in the Big Zee. Now he felt a mixture of joy and homesickness. It was so still all around him; only the crickets weaving their unique melodies in the long grass disrupted the silence.

Jecht reflected on Braska had taught him earlier on that day. "You have to think about nothing but the flame. Think about its colours, the warmth, your pain if you touched it. When that flame is so strong in your mind that you'd swear it was real, open your eyes, channel the flame and it will appear where you wish."

_...You can do anything you put your mind to._

With an inner peace, Jecht closed his eyes and began to imagine. He saw floppy brown hair and ocean blue eyes, like Linnya's. He recreated that baby face and the scrawny little body underneath, and the clothes that hung off. The finishing touch was an angelic smile, waiting for him.

Jecht opened his eyes and placed the boy at his left side, sitting with him. But there was no one there... and he was still alone.

"Magic sucks."

He bowed his head and kicked his legs out in front of him angrily, adamant he would never use magic again.


	20. Wounded Warrior

XX

_Wounded Warrior_

* * *

_Bevelle: nine years before..._

Iaidō's dojo was located about halfway up the Tower of Light in Bevelle, very much in the shadow of the temple and the altar. It was lit only by candles dotted regularly around the circumference of the room, creating a dim but humble ambiance. On the stone walls were many paintings of the human form, during both physicality and rest. Meticulously crafted by Iaidō himself, they were testament to the smaller, yet more satisfying pursuits since he had retired from the temple. Even the elegant wooden frames in which the paintings were docked were of his design.

Resting on an easel in a corner of the room was a work in progress: it was the face of a striking and sombre middle-aged woman, her silken silver hair penetrated by steely blue eyes. Quite the departure from his more regular efforts, but in his twilight, Iaidō was entitled to it.

The Grand Master was resplendent in a neatly-ironed white kimono tucked into a navy blue hakama, as was his young protégé, Auron. He had a neatly groomed goatee beard that varied in tone from a deep silver to bone white. It matched the wiry strands that sprouted from his temples and little else. His skin was an olive tan, further accentuating his ashen hair. His bushy eyebrows, still a healthy black, rode very low over his puffed, sagely eyes that now peered down proudly.

Auron was sat with his knees slid into the straw mat beneath him, absorbing the subtle smells from the incense burner just to one side. His hands were placed patiently on his thighs as he awaited his richly-deserved accolade.

Lord Iaidō lowered the side of the katana in his hands, placing it on Auron's right shoulder and then his left, being careful to avoid the curly long hair that threatened to spill out all over his ceremonial attire. "You have achieved all you have set out to achieve in the art of Bushido. You came to me as an impetuous child. I broke you and then remade you. But you still have much to learn about life itself and there is so much I could have taught you, had time been on either of our sides."

His voice was deep and learned, with a rasp to it brought on by age and decay. Iaidō raised a fist over his mouth and released a throaty, phlegm-filled splutter. He carried himself these days with only a sleight demeanour, the strong and noble features of his youth distant and irretrievable. He had ventured into the realm of the unwell many years before.

"My thanks, sensei, for everything." Auron replied, a mix of sincerity and politeness, stretching forward and praying with his hands and head at the ground.

"Up." bid the grand old master, abashed by such worship. "Before you depart this hallowed place for the last time, there is one final thing I have to say."

"A lesson?"

"It's advice." He patiently awaited the sole attention of his young apprentice. "Auron... should a warrior's head suddenly be cut from his shoulders, there is one final act he can perform with certainty. Should one become a vengeful spirit, he can right that which is wrong, because he has become truly invincible."

"...You speak of... revenge?"

"Perception, boy. I speak of making a choice. On your path, there may come a time when you and you alone must decide... mm... well, you _will_ decide. Never mind, it is not something I can teach you practically. Just be prepared for such a day."

"I shall." the young man replied with an obedient, but clearly confused nod. He performed the prayer of Yevon, but replaced the globe shape with a fist on the flat of his palm.

"Farewell, Auron."

"...Farewell."

Auron received his prize and sheathed it in the large, brown leather scabbard that ran down his back. Then, he moved on with no regrets.

"Auron!"

The young man turned in the doorway, bright light from outside reducing him to an unreadable silhouette.

"Destiny is but an illusion, designed to fool the weak of will. You _always_ have a choice. No one, not even Yevon, can take that privilege from you."

Iaidō could not make out Auron's reaction but was satisfied it impacted and resonated deeply within him. The young man would mull over this final lecture another time. He turned finally and left.

* * *

_Mi'ihen Highroad: now..._

Outside the agency, and the three pilgrims were on high alert. What had possessed Auron to bring Jecht's sphere camera out with him, he did not know. It would seem the contraption had become as integral to the pilgrimage as Jecht himself. The Chocobo Eater had returned for breakfast, bounding violently off of the roof of the Agency and awakening them. Auron was now pivoting in complete but gainless circles, the camera detecting nothing.

"A giant fiend that attacks Chocobos..." mused Braska.

"Heh, what's it waiting for? Hey! Come out and fight!" Jecht rallied, goading the fiend into making an appearance.

"I told you this was a waste of time." Auron moaned from behind the camera.

"Hey, come on!" Jecht implored to his sceptical comrade. "It's the right thing to do!" Those darned words again, the ones that had brought them more trouble than its worth and was more than likely to do the same again. "Everyone's depending on us. Besides, it's good practice."

For once, Jecht had put it into words Auron could understand. He chortled when he considered the man from Zanarkand was correct. There was no way they could sail through this pilgrimage without veering off the straight path occasionally. "I guess you're right."

"Well, then..." the summoner took a huge lungful in anticipation.

From out of nowhere, the beast sent a huge flailing fist at Auron from behind, which the guardian just about registered, flinging himself to one side. The camera flew from his hands and hit the soft soil as the fiend galloped towards the Chocobo corral.

"There it is!" exclaimed Jecht. "Auron! Let's get him!"

"Right!"

The fiend made its stand in the wide open space just north of the corral. The golden feathered birds became startled, flapping desperately to break free of the leather bonds tied around their faces, making frantic "Kweh" noises as they failed. Jecht faced the beast, defiantly blocking its path.

Like most fiends, the Chocobo Eater was an aberration to behold. It hunched, anchored by gigantic scaled fists and forearms for added damage. Its head was similarly giant and ghastly, like a hairless gorilla, merging directly into its bony shoulders and torso, with no neck to speak of. Like its jaw, the tongue split in two at the end, lolling about side-by-side, the jaw lined with rotting yellow fangs. Its feet and torso were relatively small, but muscular and compact to compensate for its disproportionate bulk.

It again swung for Auron, who evaded with a deft sidestep. It took the guardian all of a second to realise the best strategy. The beast was swinging sporadically and without any obvious finesse or consideration. Primarily, they would need to measure those flailing mitts and slowly force the Chocobo Eater towards the cliff's edge behind it. Not even such a brute could survive a fall like that.

"We drive it back. There, it will have nowhere to run!"

"Ain't no better defence than a good offence!" Jecht concurred.

It was the Blitz ace who made the first move, slicing the left arm of the Chocobo Eater, which countered by trying to swat him with its right like a bothersome gnat. Jecht had the attack well scouted and produced an elegant back flip back to his starting position. Auron would not allow the fiend a chance to recuperate and added an effortlessly powerful chop to the right standing leg, visibly hurting it. Braska toppled the fiend with a powerful blast of icy wind. He continued to push the Chocobo Eater back by a matter of several feet before running out of steam, affording the enemy time to vault back onto its feet. The Chocobo Eater pointed sardonically straight at the summoner, as to indicate he was next.

"Tough sumbitch, I'll give it that." admitted Jecht, somewhat standoffish.

Auron, however, was unwilling to stray from his tactics and relentlessly hacked at the fiend's arms and legs. The Chocobo Eater recovered and boxed Auron on his right flank, dazing the warrior as it lined up a measured right hay maker. As though in slow motion, Jecht perceived the threat and leapt to barge the guardian aside, the fist whistling inches past his head.

"Watch your own back from now on, boy." Jecht teased. "I can't be there to protect you all the time."

"Jecht..." Disgust spread across Auron's face when he realised Jecht had quite possibly saved his life. Braska beckoned his two allies aside as he prepared to summon Ixion, the lightning Aeon of Djose. Sparks crackled from his staff and into the air, channelling to forge an inter-dimensional opening. Braska began to struggle with whatever writhed within, yanking out a notched yellow horn. It was sharp and curved like a scythe. The summoner got a good, strong hold of his stave and ripped the Aeon from the portal, gently guiding it into the space at his side.

Ixion took the form of a unicorn, its dark flesh sprouting with tufty white hair along its mane, tail and limbs. The Aeon rocked on its back two feet and unleashed a thrilling nay as it kicked out its front two feet. Braska brandished his staff at its adversary and Ixion prepared to charge.

Galloping frenetically towards the Chocobo Eater, the Aeon rended a huge rip across the fiend's chest with its sharp horn, blood splashing out onto the grass. The beast became enraged, croaking with a guttural fury as it clobbered the Aeon so fiercely in kind that the horse's horn shattered. Defeated, the Aeon fell onto it's knees and slowly ceased to be in a shroud of pyreflies. Jecht was beside himself at how easily the Aeon had perished.

"Don't be concerned. You cannot kill an Aeon just as much as you cannot kill a dream."

Braska again readied his staff, spinning it as the temperature dropped sharply, making the hairs stand on his arms. He looked at the flagging, bleeding enemy as he completed the ritual and Shiva, the ice Aeon of Macalania, was amongst them. Her skin was chillingly blue, with no warmth to found there or in her eyes. With a wave of her arms, the glassy structure which encased her shattered into pyreflies.

Braska panned his eyes over the exposed and irrefutably seductive body of the Aeon, her hips slinking suggestively as she moved. Her platted hair draped over her breasts and her back, the braids anchored by large spikes at each end.

With graceful nonchalance, she discarded the silky sash that was tied to her waist, the summoner gently bringing it down on the shaft of his stave. Shiva raised her arms way above her head and the sky blackened. Possessing a clinically detached attention, she noticed her own body freezing through the immense arctic power she wielded. The Chocobo Eater could only watch in what could be viewed as horror as Shiva brought her fingers up into a pinched position.

_Snap._

The report cannoned through the field like a gunshot. Ice tore through the Chocobo Eater and washed over it like a frozen Tsunami. The world faded in a glassy haze as blood floated upwards from fresh wounds and then stilled, becoming solid like the ice. The cliff's edge pulled away, leaving the entombed fiend to plummet into the depths of the Mi'ihen ocean with a thunderous splash.

* * *

_Bevelle: eight years before..._

Atop Bevelle's Tower of Light thousands of feet above the city, Iaidō's funeral was richly attended by what seemed like a legion of Warrior Monks, each with their own tale to tell of their former master. A myriad of temple officials and indeed the three Maesters of Yevon were in attendance: Kataaij, Zane and His Grace, Grand Maester Mika himself had come to pay their respects.

Kataaij was an old man himself, in his seventies. Time had been kinder to him though than his long-time friend, as he was still able to carry himself erectly. His sliver hair was long and braided down his back. Facially, he had a low-pointing nose and a stern face, with a dominant brow that cast shade over his eyes. His silk robes were black, emblazoned in the symbol of Yevon.

Iaidō was once himself a Maester, leader of military affairs, the role assumed by Zane. He officially retired to reacquaint himself with his true passion, the intimacy of one-to-one tutelage. Also, his health had began to fail him in his final years in charge and he wished to step down with his dignity intact.

Iaidō's final student stared fixedly at the casket though the metal visor of his Warrior Monks helm. One in a long row of Monks with personal feelings invested in Iaidō, Auron especially struggled to remain dispassionate, sorrow threatening to crack his mask of professionalism. Though his old mentor's death was inevitable, it stung him to his soul. His instincts warned that something was not right. If Iaidō had died from natural causes, was there such a need for a sending? Was he even in the casket at all? Was this just a going-through-the-motions ceremony to vainly appreciate the life of the great man?

The Monk took a fleeting glance of Mika but could discern nothing from him. He was taking the death of a long-time friend and colleague rather well, a little too well for Auron's liking. The look on his face even bordered on disinterest. Indeed, only Kataaij showed visible signs of grief. The young man mentally beat down such thoughts of conspiracy; this was not the time nor the place. Indeed, he was foolhardy to assume any foul play on nothing more than a hunch, especially against Grand Maester Mika; men were sent to the Via Purifico for less. Iaidō was correct in saying that young Auron had much to learn of the world.

The priest looming over the head of the casket cleared his throat and began to recite the eulogy he had committed to memory. "Today, we send a great, great man to his final resting place. Iaidō was a father figure to many present here today. In his prime, he taught these men the skills to fight, to survive and to improve, men who have gone on to become generals and leaders of the highest calibre. Lord Iaidō, may your spirit be guided to the Farplane, where you will meet your wife Arlene. May you find bliss eternal."

"Bliss eternal." the Monks uttered in sombre unison as the sending commenced. The priest raised his right hand, with the index and middle fingers held tightly together. In his left, a staff veered from behind his back to directly in front of him in a purposeful swing. He guided the stave down with his fingers, always in control.

Three barrel-chested tenors bellowed the Hymn of the Fayth and Pyreflies began to bleed through the top of the casket; someone was indeed lying within. Witnessing his first sending, Auron became enchanted by the lights for long enough to quench the emotional blaze that was building inside him. Exposed, the pyreflies sang such a lovely yet pained melody. Did they reflect the thoughts and dashed dreams that may have plagued Iaidō's end?

Amidst the music and the wind that rustled through them, Auron was almost certain he heard a solitary bang on the lid of the coffin. It sent a cold wave rippling beneath his skin and down his spine. Did he imagine it? Or was Iaidō trying to resist the sending? Such thoughts brought his heart to the pounding of a cannon in his chest.

Like stars glittering upwards into the dusky sky, the remnants of Grand Master Iaidō vanished and he had been laid to rest. Once more, Auron was doing all he could to not be overwhelmed. How he wished his feelings were a switch he could flick on and off when he chose. Iaidō had confused him by teaching him the value of individuality, of no compromise. Such a mentality led to emotion and internal conflict. The subservient whole of him had been affected by a dark thought, that one's destiny was one's own to make.

Before, the idea of obedient servitude was a comfort to him, warmth whenever there was a moral complication. He would just do as the guidelines instructed. Iaidō's final lesson had thrown everything up into the air. He had been told by a man he deeply respected that he was more than a mere pawn.

It made such thrall seem like a shackle that he was meant to break free from. But the pain and distraction it brought him was a shackle in itself. To have a choice, as Iaidō stated, meant that he could choose to banish the rogue inside him for as long as it suited.

There were many things in this world that were yet to present themselves to him and he was already confused enough as it was. Iaidō's lesson of individuality was one he would have to frankly ignore until such a time arose.

Auron brought his eyes forward and corrected his somewhat slouched posture when he noticed the Maesters and their aides approach him. What did they want with a lowly Warrior Monks Sargent? Mika, wizened and considered, emerged at the front. The Grand Maester was decked out in his usual garments: a red robe, with beige arms and black shoulders. His face was so hard to read with his neatly cultivated white beard, eyebrows and hair that ran down from underneath his black flat cap.

"Ah, you must be Iaidō's final student." were the frailly delivered words. Auron didn't quite bow, but his action was more than a nod. The Grand Maester leant in so his mouth was positioned by the Monk's ear.

"We won't have any trouble from you, will we, boy?"

Auron could not conceal his look of utter bewilderment. Again, he tried to search Mika's narrow eyes and his face, but could find nothing. "No, Your Grace."

The Grand Maester responded with a satisfied smile and with more than a subtle tone of condescension said, "Good lad" before trundling away, Kataaij in tow. Zane gave Auron a good looking over, before dismissing the young warrior as inferior and weak.

A new feeling claimed Auron: fury, a fury that brought his jaws clenching tight and his fingernails digging into his palms. All the while as his stare locked on the empty casket, he was watched by his new friend Kinoc opposite him, who observed the disquieted young man with a genuine look of concern.


	21. Shadow of Sin

XXI

_Shadow of Sin_

The sound of clawed feet steadily scuffed off hardened soil and up into the midday air. Rin had rewarded Braska's party for their courage in defeating the fiend outside the agency with a free Chocobo ride each. Such a feeble offering angered Jecht, who had labelled the crafty proprietor a tight ass. Rin had simply bowed and took it as a compliment.

The golden-feathered birds were swift on ground, their huge, bounding strides capable of speeds beyond any man. They were noble creatures, with prominent chests and plumes from their heads and rears. Chocobos had soft, black eyes and wide, curved beaks that always seemed to offer a smile. It was too bad their owners did not consider bathing them a high priority, Jecht thought with a repulsed expression.

He had seen one or two Chocobos in Zanarkand, but not put to such uses. They were extremely rare, mainly exotic pets for the particularly wealthy eccentrics whose company he had been forced to endure for his art. They were uncommon because a city that thrived on unerring technological progression had simply left them behind. Anything a Chocobo could do, a machina -machine- could do ten times better.

The creature handled pretty well, though. Slight tweaks of the leather straps tied to its beak altered its pace, while it veered naturally between obstacles but remained close to the pack.

For miles in all directions were plush green fields of long, windswept reeds. This winding dirt track had been ground bald over many centuries by many wandering feet. As the pilgrims ventured into areas of the Highroad more densely populated by fellow travellers, they slowed the speed of their Chocobos to a halt. The surroundings presented themselves a little more clearly now and Jecht realised that more ruined husks ruptured the clodding earth.

The dead. These remnants were of dead, ancient civilisations, preserved for all time. The Fiends they battled and sent to the Farplane were souls of the dead. Aeons were dreams of the dead made flesh. It seemed to Jecht that, in Spira, one commanded more power in death than in life. That dragon creature that had fought with them in Belvir was an Aeon, a dream of the Fayth and had crushed the Sin Spawn without breaking a sweat.

Most curiously, that indeterminable tune that ran through his mind every so often -the Hymn of the Fayth- was a song to soothe the souls of the dead. He knew the tune implicitly, but could not pinpoint where he had learned it. It had always resided at the back of his mind, maybe from his childhood. He'd heard others whistle it on the streets of Zanarkand too, so he wasn't the only one.

Braska approached a mound that hosted an especially dominant ruin of what was once a building top, its windows riddled by ivy. It was hollow now, allowing journeyers to step right inside and run their fingers along the dusty old stone of the past, become one with their world's most ancient history.

Jecht whistled appreciatively. "Beauty, ain't it. So, what's the story with this place? I see an awful lot of ruins around here, maybe more than anywhere else."

"Correct." Braska replied. "The Mi'ihen Highroad was once a city, a thousand years old. Until of course Sin annihilated it during its destructive baptism. There were many cities such as this, drawing the fury of the beast and they were unmade in such a short time. It shows that we are still weak as a people that Sin continues to attack us. We are truly paying for our short sighted dependency on machina."

This was the one legend of Spira that continued to not impress Jecht. It just seemed too convenient to him that this Sin was an elaborate manifestation of their own sins. It did not seem realistic to his rational mind.

There was a statue further on just to the right that required them to pivot in on themselves to identify it. It was of a beast of a man, standing triumphantly over a vanquished behemoth, his blade sank deep into its back. The man was indubitably a warrior, from his burly physique, to his formal armour and blade.

His flowing dark hair swept back over his scalp, blending into the rugged sideburns and stubble on his face. Jecht was amazed at how meticulous the sculptors of these statues really were, that they would so passionate about their work as to include facial stubble in an alarmingly realistic statue. All such tributes in Spira featured similar levels of loving detail.

His garments were a battle of functionality and ceremony. He wore a breastplate like Auron. It was metallic and golden, and also in a state of disrepair, missing sections revealing a leather under section. He wore a silken white kilt over grey leggings and brown leather boots. Around his waist was another, thicker kilt. More like a cape that had started at his hips, the sculptor had designed it so it blended into the rock.

Tied to his left shoulder and scaling all the way down his arm was an oblong shield. In his right hand, he grasped tightly the shaft of his weapon: a blade, somewhere between a conventional sword and the anchor of a ship. At one end was the curved edge and at the other, a double hook, presumably for snagging the weapon of a foe. The blade was enormous; the fact that this man could wield it, let alone pick it up, was testament to the power he possessed.

"Wow, who is this guy?"

"That is Lord Mi'ihen." said Auron, with an undisputed tone of respect. "Remember those Crusaders we ran into at Djose Temple? Mi'ihen is their founder. Eight hundred years ago, he founded the Crimson Blades –now the Crusaders."

It surprised Jecht that Auron knew so much about the Crusaders. From what he could gather from their confrontation with those boneheads outside the temple, the Crusaders and the Warrior Monks hardly got along. But then, maybe it paid to keep your enemies closer.

"Their growing ranks caused concern to the Maesters of Yevon, who suspected a potential uprising." Auron continued. "So, Mi'ihen walked alone from the Oldroad all the way to Bevelle to have showdown talks with the Maesters, stopping along the way at Djose Temple to gather supplies. He won over the priests there and then the Maesters, and Yevon sanctioned them the 'Crusaders'. They serve to protect towns and villages from Sin and its spawn."

"Hey, you're beginning to sound like that old fart in the green hat." This brought a smirk to Auron and Braska's lips.

The summoner's dismount from his Chocobo signalled for his guardians to reciprocate. He approached the Al Bhed handler and offered her the reins with a dutiful smile.

The view physically knocked Jecht back on his heels. From amidst the dense forest and the bay erupted this vibrant, pulsing city! Though not able to hold a candle to Zanarkand in terms of area, it was very much a sight for his sore eyes.

Auron presented the city to Jecht with a beckoning arm. "Behold: the city of Luca."

Mingling hundreds of feet above the buildings was a legion of hot air balloons: tall, thin and in a spectrum of colours, they allowed excited families the chance to view their beloved city amongst the birds. Jecht had noticed that the ruins dotted throughout the broken plains of Spira had been somewhat similar in design to those of his home city. Here, he could see that Zanarkand and the rest of Spira had similar architecture; the only obvious difference was that Luca was relatively conservative, the buildings all bunched up tidily around a plaza in the centre. The city that never slept was risqué in its design, maybe even dangerous at times, but so much more wondrous. He imagined this same view at night being dull, with no iridescence.

Many of the buildings were tall, elegant stupas of many colours, while others were low and wide. The cobbled streets were of white stone, as were the shafts of many of the buildings, giving Luca a bright, clear look. Though jostling with hundreds of people, the city seemed at peace, with fear a mere distant murmur. Jecht modified that thought; it wasn't a city without fear, it was a city that didn't give a damn. They actually had lives here, he imagined, and Sin was not constantly at the forefronts of their minds.

In the far distance, sitting in the maws of the bay, was a structure he could not quite determine, probably the temple. His eyesight wasn't what it once was. There seemed to be much activity going on down there though, with the teeming masses heading in their droves over the bridge that connected it to the mainland. A distant sound of a horn bounced off the ocean surface and up into his ears. It reminded him of the harbour back home. Almost everything about this place did, but then, he had been away for a long time.

After making their way down a flight of steps onto a stone walkway, Jecht was now able to make out that structure dead ahead, at the far end of the city. "Blitzball!" he exclaimed, leaning so far over the iron handrail in his excitement he nearly fell. "I didn't know there was a Blitzsphere in Spira." _Another connection._

For a moment, he was sent hurtling back to the waves of fans cramming the aisle that led to the Zanarkand dome, the one he had cockily strode hundreds of times throughout his illustrious career en route to another show-stopping performance.

Luca stadium was built up around a glass sphere that encased the Blitzsphere and the stands. The glass was out in the open of day, but also featured a retractable roof for evening fixtures and bad weather. The structure around it was a well-crafted combination of curved, white painted steel and stone. Five sheltered offshoots sprouted from the centre like fingers from a palm, with ships sailing from all directions to dock at them.

Descending further into the heart of the city, they entered the city's main plaza: a series of commercial buildings and offices rammed together, all revolving around a stone monument with a towering crystal erupting from the top, in the style of a sword. It reminded Jecht of the Diamond Cup he had won innumerate times, the way light shimmered from its smooth surface.

Crammed in between a café and the stacked Blitzball Broadcasting Company building was a small but popular haunt. Numerous fans, decked out in various Blitz merchandise, shuffled along the orange carpeted walkway that led to the building's wooden entrance. Above the aisle was an archway festooned by a single word. The three innocuous letters hit Jecht full in the face: BAR. He felt an internal twinge, like that of a muscular injury, only so much more profound. Jecht realised that while he could try to quit the drink, the drink would not quit him so easily. He'd been fighting fiends and thoroughly enjoying it, taking on Sin and generally being more responsible. He had ventured into realms of his own heart previously uncharted and revelled in it. He had been sucked in by Spira and forgotten all about his old addiction; indeed, he go as far as saying Spira had become his new addiction. Only here in Luca, a city comparable to Zanarkand in a backward kind of way, was he reminded that he was still trying to go cold turkey. The thought turned his stomach into a bottomless pit.

"Are you okay, Jecht?" asked a concerned Braska. "You look pale..."

"Nothing a beer wouldn't fix..." he said absently.

"A beer?"

"Sorry." the blitzer uttered, slapping his hand to his forehead.

"Don't be. I can't imagine it's easy for you, to just stop."

"No, no. Fact is, this is the first I thought of it since the Moonflow."

"A lot has happened to distract you." Jecht's eyes fluttered down to the floor like the path of a falling sheet of paper. "It's all right. You can talk if you want. I won't judge you."

"It's just..." Jaw clenched and eyes staring pointedly at the ground, Jecht found himself struggling to stay above the surface again, all of sudden. "It's just that I didn't even have to buy myself a drink back in Zanarkand. I'd stroll into a bar, just like that one there, and it'd be, 'Hey Jecht, what're ya drinkin'?', 'Oh look, it's Jecht! Wouldn't it be great if I bought him a drink? That'd sure make me look cool!' Everyone used to buy me a drink, all the time thinkin' they were the only one, that it made them special. But everyone bought me one, and I couldn't refuse."

Even packed in amongst the cheerful fans and even his two comrades, Jecht felt utterly alone for a chilling few seconds. It was always that same feeling, when he was backed into a corner and forced to face it. There was nobody who could help him, not even Braska, whose sincere, but ultimately useless smile could not even scratch the surface of Jecht's problems. Even his loving wife did not know the extent of the demons that tortured him, and he was not one who would lay it out to her, or anyone else, but deal with it in his own way, brood on it and let it eat him up inside. Instead, he raised a shield, or more specifically, a mask of arrogant macho bravado to hide his weakness from the world. Sickness was weakness, after all, and weakness would not do.

The Blitz ace realised he had come dangerously close to lowering his guard beyond acceptable limits and slipped his mask back into place. He spotted in his periphery a small, balding man trying to offer odds on the upcoming Blitzball tournaments. Looking rather down on his luck, he spoke frantically, spewing the prices he was offering on the Luca Goers to win. No one was naïve enough to take bets against the Goers, not since the Belvir Warriors team had been so recently decimated by Sin.

Jecht caught his eye inadvertently and the fat man jerked as though to shuffle towards him, but the Blitzer gave a curt shake of the head, effortlessly able to decline his offer of a bet.

With his addictive personality, it would be easy to imagine Jecht hitting the bookies with relish, but he never did; he had seen what it could do to a man. There were many solid Blitzers that he had seen fall away to fund their extravagant pastime. Gambling... definitely the worst sort of addiction. Next to those guys, Jecht felt better about his own problem, if only a little. Of the three "Sportsman's habits", his was by far the tamest. Too often did he take a warped sense of pride from that knowledge.

At least with Blitzball it was black and white, simple; escapism at its best. Playing was a drug too, but one that could not lead to self destruction. Drink, narcotics, gambling were the by-product of the sport, or more specifically, of the pressures that came with the sport, of being a role model. He wondered if the Blitz stars of Spira were the same. Maybe not, he couldn't imagine it being so important here as it was back home. In Zanarkand, it was the only religion the people had, the stadium its only altar. In Spira, how could the fans possibly kick back and enjoy themselves while constantly cast in the shadow of Sin?


	22. The Beautiful Game

XXII

_The Beautiful Game_

Luca had a pulse, a heartbeat, a soul. It had a free-spirit in comparison to the stuffy, temple-obsessed Bevelle. The streets were abuzz with activity: crazed fans parting with their hard-earned Gil for tee-shirts, gloves with oversized fingers and other Blitzball paraphernalia. To the trained eye, there was obvious ticket touting in shady side alleys. It brought Jecht the disappointment of rustling up free passes to Blitz games, only for the unscrupulous bastards to almost immediately sell them on for vastly inflated prices.

Nostalgia now as he surrendered to the notion that this place was too much like home for comfort. The roar of the crowd as Jecht slammed in another one. _Three and two to the Abes!_ Not that the score line ever really mattered. It was the thrill of the event, the spark that burrowed into one's veins and took control at the blood works, just like it did here.

Thin walkways craned a hundred feet over the top of the main boulevard, people piling out of shopping malls and apartments. The aisle was rammed with swaying supporters all the way up to the entrance a good mile beyond the ocean. There was a scintillating edge of electricity in the air and an excited din that engulfed one's very own thoughts.

Though he wanted nothing more than to open his eyes and realise this whole journey had just been a ghastly nightmare, his views on Spira had changed dramatically. He totally bought the sense of adventure and exhilaration... and of unity, a sensation he had never truly known until now. People stood on other's shoulders in Spira to forge solid foundations. In Zanarkand, they stood on other's shoulders just to lift themselves above the rest. Both worlds had an emphasis on survival, one focusing on the duties of the community, the other focusing on the opportunities for the individual.

He didn't mind it because he had been one of the lucky ones to elevate himself above the others; there was no one who could crap on the Great Jecht. Though the masses had found an idol in Jecht, he had never really reciprocated on anything more than a superficial level, the odd signature or photograph here and there not withstanding.

A sad looking thing caught his eye at a quaint, canopied armour stall: a book. It was a battered old manual, with decades-old dust etched into the grooves of spidery text on the leather cover that had darkened with age and grime. Swiftly bartering for its purchase with some loose change, he stuffed it deep into his travel bag before Braska and Auron ahead could suspect anything.

Booming across the yawning distance of the stadium, an announcer spoke across a tannoy, his voice strangulated as though he had pinched his nose. "Blitzball is sponsored by..." _Benny's? Benny's lite?_ "...Yevon." Jecht groaned at the drearily obvious truth.

* * *

The ticket office. From the Titan Tron hanging overhead projected the wobbling face of a man in his fifties. A sack of fat drooped from under his chin, thundering about at ten times magnification as he became increasingly impassioned in his speech. He had chalky mutton-chop sideburns with straggling wiry hairs jutting out at the base, which was sharply trimmed at the hinges of his jaw. Combined with his bushy eyebrows with similar offshoots and thinning tufts at sporadic points of his pate, the man just seemed to Jecht like a fat pile of hairy jelly. Spittle flew from his tongue and yellowy teeth as he continued to jabber.

"Who's this bozo?"

"Maester Yiendon Zane, minister of Temple and Military affairs." Braska explained, uncertain whether or not to feel offended by the Zanarkand native's latest slur against Yevon. "He is the active leader of the Warrior Monks and also oversees the running of the Crusaders at length."

"Huh..." a cell of grey matter yelled for attention inside Jecht's mind. "He's the one Jyscal mentioned, ain't he?" Braska nodded. "_This_ lard ass? So much for the knight in shining armour…"

"Time makes fools of us all, Jecht." the summoner said, with the facial equivalent of shrugging one's shoulders. Jecht took a pinch of fat from his hip between finger and thumb and uttered inwardly, "Ain't that the truth?"

"As the Minister of Military _and_ Temple affairs, he has understandably become quite reclusive." Braska added while they walked. "It's a miracle he has had time to record this speech."

_--This tournament is an especially important one, in the memory of Maester Kataaij, who departed for the Farplane two weeks before from natural causes--_

"You're not serious, my lord." Auron was incredulous when he saw his master make a beeline for the ticket booth. "The-the pilgrimage..."

"The pilgrimage be damned for two hours!" The summoner snapped, uncharacteristically. He realised his slide out of persona and realigned. "Learn to live, Auron."

"You heard the man." Jecht followed up, shouldering his way past the startled guardian.

"_You!_" Auron seethed, like a rattlesnake that had swiftly switched its target. "You're the one who put such crazy ideas in his mind!"

"Sure I did, buddy. Sure I did."

Jecht may have once told Auron where to stick it, but had learned some about constraint. His cheeky grin and casual saunter away left Auron a simmering mess.

Jecht had saved Braska from disappointment after the pretty young thing at the ticket booth had told them they were sold out. Using some of his old school charm, he managed to persuade her to find a spare three lying around. He had made all sorts of promises to her, such as meeting her after the game for dinner, reducing the naïve girl to a shiver. Braska had complimented him on his gift of the silver tongue. Though Jecht just smiled and said 'Thank you', he knew deep down he was rusty as hell. Linnie had changed him in more ways than he realised.

* * *

Auron was segregated from Braska and Jecht by an obnoxious peasant with a beard of steel wool and only a half-set of teeth. He clasped the ticket in his hands with such force that not even a crowbar could dislodge those grubby, blackened fingers that served to further glamorise the golden stub.

The guardian slumped into his seat, his lips lead weights that sunk into his chest. Jecht had somehow manufactured this scenario, he was certain. He took a glance to his right, behind the lice-ridden mane of knotted hair and to the man from Zanarkand, who just stared hypnotised by the space where the Blitzsphere was yet to manifest. It hadn't even been filled yet: why was Jecht so taken by it? Struggling to find a thought to fit the question, the guardian gave up.

Even though he was not a competitor this time, Jecht felt that cascading feeling of tension in his gut, the butterfly's fluttering wings. He longed to be there, in the sphere pool. He recalled the clash of body on body, the watery ripples of consequence as the ball nestled into the top corner of the goal. More than anything, the silence was most striking. He remembered the thousands of tiny shapes that appeared short and fat, tall and thin, warped by perspective on the boundary of his vision, mouths forming silent words from way outside the sphere pool.

He had always been grateful for the silence, because it hid him partially from those who idolised him. Before the game, as he signed autographs and made promises, the lump in his throat grew and grew to the point he could not swallow. He'd always needed an hour alone in the locker room, just to drive all the noises and the expectation from his mind. Naturally, he told his team-mates it was his own little ritual. Each player was entitled to his own eccentricity, after all.

"What do you think of our humble venue, then?" An unimpressed pout and slight tilt of the shoulders was the most he would get. "Maybe there's someone at this tournament to rival even the mighty Jecht."

Jecht's coarse laughter came in smoke-stained instalments, tearing through the open space. "Keep on dreamin', Braska. Truth is, I wish there was. If there weren't no one fit to lick my boots in Zanarkand, there ain't gonna be a player in Luca, neither."

Even though he despised watching other people compete in _his_ sport, it was a good way to unwind from all the death and despair. He kicked right back, absently throwing an arm around the back of the chair to his left, realising it was behind one of the skankiest tramps he'd ever seen and recoiled like a scalded cat.

"So, what's the score?" he asked the summoner. "I didn't think a place like Spira could ever get into something like Blitzball."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, you know, the temples and all. I'd have thought they would forbid or something, claim it's a sin or some other baloney."

"On the contrary." Braska replied, turning away from Jecht to face the sphere-traced metal arms that began to creak audibly. "Blitzball is encouraged by the Temples. Only in that Blitzsphere are all races accepted without prejudice, even the Al Bhed." This surprised Jecht. "It is the only real time where the people of Spira can overcome racism and conflict... and Sin, too."

The Zanarkand native spared a thought for the athletes who would take part in today's games and what such pressures were heaped upon them. "Man..."

"Mm." the summoner nodded. "While it is essentially entertainment for you in Zanarkand, it is more like a way of life for us. It is the light in dark times."

There was an awful lot of darkness in Spira, punctuated only by a few rays of light. Blitz, summoners, Aeons... they were the stars that refused to burn out. If the looks on their faces were anything to measure it by, Jecht acknowledged that the Beautiful Game indeed conveyed a unifying emotion. _The power of Blitzball, huh?_ He'd never thought about it that way before.

Giant cannons positioned at diagonals at the base of the sphere leaning in unleashed gallons of water. It remained encapsulated within an invisible forcefield cast by the metal arms, which furiously worked to overpass one another, machina that could concentrate the pyreflies into a spherical barrier. Similar to the Blitzsphere in the Big-Zee, only much more primitive. Instead of licking riffs hammering down from speakers the size of a house, they were treated to a fruity little fanfare from a musical troupe.

The sphere had filled after several minutes and the machina scoreboard projected the markings of the playing area: the goals, penalty zones and so forth. A couple of dorks began their pre-match coverage from across the tannoy, working the crowd up further. Jecht certainly detected some of the same tricks used to elevate the atmosphere above what it genuinely was, but for the most part this was the real thing. Fans going absolutely nuts just to be a part of something special.

_--This promises to be a special tournament, Bobba--_

_--No doubt, Jimma. This is Grand Maester Mika's fortieth year in office and the commemorative cup tournament starts right here, right now--_

_--Also, the death of Maester Kataaij is filtering through to us now. May he find peace on the Farplane--_

Thousands of prayers offered to the late lord, including from Braska and Auron.

_--Not to mention that our hearts and minds go out to those courageous souls who lost their lives in the Belvir massacre. It's a tragedy that we will see no more of that classic Warriors all-out attack that served them so well in recent tournaments--_

Some of the crowd paid their silent respects; others continued to dance up and down in their idyllic fantasy lands, utterly ignorant of everything but the atmosphere.

_--The Besaid Aurochs and Al Bhed Psyches are the lucky seeded teams who receive an automatic bye to the semi-finals, folks. The Ronso Fangs will take on the Kilika Beasts in the opening first round match up and later on, our beloved Luca Goers will defeat the Guado Glories in the second tie--_

The first match saw the hulking giants known as the Ronsos swim out side-by-side with the Kilika Beasts. Jecht was bemused by the sheer space taken up by a Ronso player: muscular, catlike humanoids with ivory horns that erupted from their foreheads. The green-and-yellow clad Beasts however showed no obvious nerves about facing up to such a size disadvantage. Jecht knew the Fangs would be slow, awkward and possibly lacking in skill, placing too much of an emphasis on their physical strength and tackling.

The match was dull, to say the least. The Fangs soaked up a lot of Beasts pressure, looking for possible openings on the counter attack. But they had no one who could make that twenty or thirty-yard burst to get in behind an enemy back line. Yet the fans were still crazy, so punch drunk many did not even seem to focus on the game whatsoever.

"Man, these guys, they're real heroes, huh?"

"Are you not a hero in Zanarkand?"

His lower lip shot up, crumpling his moustache and nose. "Never came out and said I was." Heroes and Zanarkand did not mix. Heroes were born from a plight, not luxury. "Heroes don't look out for their own skins first, Braska... or take bribes, for that matter."

"You... took bribes?"

Jecht didn't intend on Braska hearing the quietened trail of that statement, but was obviously not loathe to discuss it.

"At the beginning, sure, just to get kick-started with my wife n' kid... get us out of that damned condo."

"And when did you stop?"

"When I realised I didn't need the money no more... and that the Great Jecht doesn't bow down for nobody."

Disarray trickled down the summoner's face. "You... _cheated_, to get to the top!"

"Nope, 'xact opposite. It anythin', it hindered me, missin' easy shots when I was clean through on goal, deliberately lowerin' my game ten percent. I just gave them a small piece of the man, for a price."

He kept his posture out ahead of him on the game with his arms folded, but threw a swift glance to his side and knew Braska was searching him for something, a punch line or a fairytale ending to his story. "Ah, don't give me that look. If you could go back to your shitty apartment and tell your pregnant girlfriend there was a way out, you'd do it."

Something inside forced the air out of Braska, a pang of empathy. It was not easy for him at first, a lowly acolyte with a pregnant wife. The muscles in his jaw bulged frenetically as he recalled such things -that he was most certainly not proud of- as lifting the odd coin from collection plates in Temple halls when he was certain no one else were present.

"...But how can something so pure as Blitzball be so open to corruption?"

"_Pure?_" That gravelled, juddering laugh again that escalated to the heavens. "Braska, anythin' that generates enough interest, enough cash, can be corrupted, absolutely anythin'."

He was brushing his thumb in a circular motion around the tips of his index and middle fingers. There were many universally accepted gestures to Yevon; this was the one to the God of 'Ker-Ching'.

"But, wouldn't you have it go back to the way it once was?"

"Sure, but I ain't stupid enough to think it's so easy. These bent agents, lawyers, officials, coaches, players, they're locked tight into Blitzball, into the fabric." His fingers interwove at that point to demonstrate. "Blow the lid off the whole thing now and you threaten to damage the sport beyond repair. There are a lot of nasty men willin' to do a lot of nasty things to keep their secrets intact."

Leaving it at that, they returned to the distraction of the game, which the Beasts predictably sneaked 1-0 after finally breaching the Fangs rearguard.


	23. Family Dynamic

XXIII

_Family Dynamic_

Auron had dismissed himself for the men's room at the interval of the Goers-Glories match in such indignation he had nearly forgotten to tell anyone. This was the first Blitzball tournament he had attended since his foster father had brought him as a youth. The memories were but an peculiar haze with no real images to enforce them.

His frustration mastered his secret enjoyment. In the stands, he was lax, shiftless. Such distractions would surely breed disorder on the road. This whole thing, he surmised, was a bad idea.

His featureless shape in the shiny tile was swallowed by a shifting mane of frizzy hair and the guardian noticed Jecht had snook up to the urinal to his right. The man from Zanarkand snuffled and hocked as he jostled for position. Auron may have heard light flatulence too. Jecht regarded his disdainful sidelong glance questioningly before a brisk nod. "Afternoon."

"Why have you left Lord Braska alone?" The guardian's anger cannoned around the tiling.

Jecht chose to reject the white noise next to him and instead allowed his gaze to stumble onto a round portal to his right, about the size of his head. This restroom lay on the ocean bed, sunlight catching on the ripples and in turn suffusing the inner walls. A pod of dolphins slipped and soared through the water, their ridged fins propelling them to gracefully high speeds. A dainty shellfish sidled and scuffed a cloudy residue of sand, which brought a smile to his face. The golden glitter that erupted, only to dissolve into the ether reminded him of pyreflies.

Auron remonstrated once more.

"'Cause, I was burstin' for a leak." Jecht added a sarcastic twang. "You said it yourself, 'He's a grown man, much wiser than both of us. Who's to say he's not guarding us?' "

Auron scrunched his right fist into a tight ball by his side, wrestling the urge to send it hard into Jecht's temple. Definite flatulence now as he settled into things. "Oops." he said to himself as he suffered splash back.

Everything Jecht did was irrationally grating him, even the squelch and suck of his soapy hands grappling under the hot faucet. Another wretched rendition of the Hymn was enough to send a vexed roar bouncing off the tile like thunder, much to Jecht's surprise. But there was no satisfaction this time.

* * *

Jecht had appeased Auron by bribing some unwashed bum a solitary Gil to move over one seat so that they could convene, the guardians either side of their summoner. Jecht was now seated a couple of rows from a group of young hotties, so was more than satisfied with the swap. He was ravenous now, his fingers poised over the sea of cheese-melted Nachos on his lap as a rattlesnake might an injured mouse. The match that drearily unravelled itself before him offered no distraction from his piping hot meal.

Over the tannoy: "And what's this, a half time substitution? There's Raudy, turning out in the blue and gold of the Luca Goers. What a hero, folks!"

"He was able to put his grief for his fallen Belvir team-mates behind him and get back into doing what he loves right away. What a great role model for the kids!" Concurred Boba's co-announcer, Jimma.

With a mouth full of Nachos, Jecht peeped up quickly through one eye and indeed noticed the young, dark-skinned goalkeeper with whom he had briefly spoken in Belvir, before... well, before.

The hosts and defending champions -The Luca Goers- already commanded a two-nil lead over the Guado Glories and eased past them with a killer third during the second half. Their talismanic captain Fabool scored it, to the loud chorus of "BOOL" that lapped the stadium.

_-Ha, and look folks, he gives a playful point to Maester Mika sat all the way up in the regal box._

_And he's waving back and to all of the fans. That's nice._

The Glories offered grace and bursts of real speed in the water, but little else. The Goers he supposed demonstrated something equating flair and close-quarter skill in attack, but were ultimately the best of a bad bunch, elevated only by the utter ineptitude of the chasing pack. They were not even fit to tie the boot laces of the Duggles, let alone the Abes.

Braska from his left asked how Spiran Blitzball compared to Zanarkand. "Crap." was his vacant reply.

"I remember you performing a shot in Bevelle, before we left." The summoner cherished the memory. "The Jecht Shot, mark three, you called it."

"Mm-Hm. You want to know about marks one and two. Heh. If you're lucky, I might just show ya, one day!"

"How do you..." Jecht inclined his head, expecting Braska to finish.

"Can you tell me how it is you are so confident, so... positive, all the time?"

The blitzer's gaze slid to the back of the seat in front of him, though he was not looking at it especially. That's how he must have seemed, an impervious shield of confidence, someone who couldn't possibly need any help. Could it be that the summoner needed tips on how to appear in control to everyone around him?

"Maintainin' your confidence is the easy part. You don't realise just how easy winnin' is until yer in the middle of a hot streak." His voice took the form of a teacher's instructing a keen pupil, as his eyes regarded the cocky Goers players, raffish in victory. "It's pickin' yourself up when the confidence dries up, that's tough. You get in a rut, start listenin' to the negative voices, all goes down the toilet."

Auron tuned in to the conversation, but betrayed no signs of interest.

"Only someone you care about and respect can bring you back from that. Early on in my career, about the same age of the young guys in that sphere pool right now, someone tells me I'm too small and I believe him. Sledge right there." He played the thumb side of a clenched fist to the centre of his tattooed chest. "Learned to grow an extra layer of skin after that, never looked back." Confidence and defiance, even ignorance were all born from the same basic principle. "Back is... is gone."

The last line had squirmed from his lips of its own accord, and sounded amiss to him. Regret was as obstinate an enemy as a man could face. This was his next shift in thought, but he felt what he had said was sufficient, giving a glimpse into who he really was, but no so much as to discomfort him. He felt dangerously on the verge of a self-incriminating rant, but hoisted himself back by the shoulder.

A seeded team, the Al Bhed psyches, looked to depose the Kilika Beasts in the first semi and progress to the final. They were mysterious in the eyes of the fans, those who had largely sequestered them. Jecht however, could sense a taboo sexual tension amongst many of the ladies dotted around him. Was it the goggles that concealed their eyes? The tight, leather uniform? The sandy blond hair? Or was it that the Al Bhed represented the exotic, the rogue element that had such a debilitating effect on the girls? He smirked at the low gasps and sighs as eyes searched across the tan, muscled flesh of the Psyches' male players.

As with most of the teams in Spira, the Psyches played with a wary approach to the game. They only looked to attack on the break, when the Beasts' team were all piled up in their half. They emerged with speed and purpose, but with the common sense to compact their shape when they themselves became exposed. Their young goalkeeper, Nimrook, was a Goliath between the goalposts, comfortably repelling the Beasts strikers. The half finished goalless, but with the Beasts high on confidence and shading the match.

They made their dominance count and scored a few moments after the recommencement of the game, sending all but a tiny, leather-clad section of the stadium into bursts of rapture. Jecht remained cross-armed in his seat. _Static defence, goalie wasn't guarding his near post well enough, Psyches only have themselves to blame for not committing more in attack._

The team from Navika island tried to get back into the game, but indeed had seen their game plan of frustrating the Kilika Beasts players backfire. Now they had to score two goals to win and lacked the quality to do so, bowing out of the competition 0-1.

On the other side of the draw, the Luca Goers were paired with another seed, the Besaid Aurochs. If there was ever game to throw all your money on, then this was it. As close to a statistical impossibility as you could get, not even Yevon's most profound blessing could earn an Aurochs victory.

The Goers boasted a four-nil lead at half time, their players cutting through the water and the Aurochs defence with embarrassing ease. Ten-nil at full time was nearly a satisfactory result for the men from Besaid. The vanquished team from the southern isles drudged away into the dressing room, their brittle dreams crushed for another year.

And so, the grand final: the massive favourites, the Luca Goers versus the plucky Kilika Beasts. There was a sombre acknowledgement throughout the crowd that it should have been a Goers-Warriors final. That was the people's final, the age-old clash of talent and desire. As absorbing as Blitzball was, it was often put into its rightful place by Sin, as a game. It was up to the people to elevate it back to a pedestal that made it second in reverence only to Yevon's teachings. Blitzball was not about life and death, it went much deeper than that.

"And who is that making a late appearance for the Kilika Beasts? Why, it's _Vuroja_, formerly of the Belvir Warriors! Has he no shame, Boba? Only days after the tragedy of his village and he's out playing for another team. A mercenary folks, and no mistake!"

"Gotta agree with you there, Jimma. What kind of message does it send out to the kids?"

Heckles from the crowd ensued and a wincing Vuroja knew it, even from within the safety of the sphere pool.

Jecht was reminded of something distant and crucial. He had not filmed a sphere recording since the Thunder Plains. It was remarkable that he had completely lost sight of his aim: to record the sights of Spira for his family. Watching Blitz had reminded him about the conversation he'd had with Tidus, so long ago now. He had tried to emulate his legendary Jecht shot, and failed utterly. He had mocked.

To film an actual game was a rare chance, because he had always been in the sphere pool, and being recorded never appealed to him, even though he was probably being filmed by every sports network in the city.

But there was a thought that quashed all else. Sat here in the stands as a spectator, this could have been his only chance to facilitate to his son his love of the game. Also... why the game had totally swallowed him up, took him away from those things that a family would consider nice: trips out to the park, to the restaurant, or just curled up on the couch watching a crappy family movie. Quality time together that was fundamentally missing from his family dynamic.

The view from the summit was stunning. Jecht knew he owed Tidus one... or two or three, and the best part of him wanted his son to get that shot at the big time like he did. Still, Jecht had strong reservations about his second generation following him into the sport, because of the hooks the lifestyle got into him. On account of Tidus being an accident, he had been totally unprepared for the rigour of family life. So he did not even bother, not even during the nine months before he popped out. Jecht could not be a family man and maintain his standards at the same time; such things were the trammels of his very essence. But the truth remained that Tidus had swung a leg out at that ball. Though he missed was not the issue. He wanted to emulate his dad, and it was high time his dad allowed him to.

Jecht snatched the camera from Auron's travel bag, which was deep at the bottom. It had been there since the Moonflow, days and even weeks ago, and the potions and trinkets the guardian had piled on top roiled in protest, but Jecht was able to fish out the smooth device and switch it on. Despite such neglect, the machina started flawlessly and without complaint.

Jecht looked sadly at the camera for a moment and not what was being captured through it, then at Auron, who he decided -or realised- seemed somehow alienated from him and Braska. He had been for a while, too. It wasn't just a strange dislike of Blitzball that was bugging him. The man from Zanarkand reached across Braska, grabbed Auron's right hand firmly and pressed the machine into his palm.

"I do not understand."

"I want _you_ to film it. No reason." Jecht said and then deflected his stare back to the action. Things had a habit of going wrong for him when he filmed.

An exciting first half finished goalless, with both 'keepers having their work cut out with some smart saves. The second period was just as breathless, with the Kilika Beasts neither asking for nor receiving any charity from the much fancied hosts. The Beasts were strong, physical and fearless, as though it was their only and last chance to steal some glory for their home nation. They took a shock lead that forced a vacuum of silence throughout the partisan home crowd. It took all the Goers had in bravery and patience to bring the fans back onto their side.

Braska would not admit it, but his morbid thirst for physical impact was beginning to assimilate him. It was the competition, the buzz of winning and losing that held the key. Blitzball had the power to bring euphoria and dejection to thousands in equal measures. He found himself having to be quelled by Auron several times as the drama took shape.

"I know yer a summoner and all," Jecht said, "But if you stand up like that again, I think that big guy behind us is gonna clock you one!"

The power and superior fitness of the Luca Goers started to tell in the second half however, and the Goers turned the scoreline around to retain the Crystal Cup. After the excitement had belatedly died down, the three vacated the arena and headed directly for dock number one, where the S. S. Winno, Kilika bound waited for them.

Braska explained to Jecht that this cup competition kicked off the season proper, with another couple of less illustrious cups in the middle and the end of the league season. There was also a special, commemorative cup for certain occasions, such as the ascension of a new Maester, or to celebrate a new Calm. Jecht was adrift mostly and the word Calm was too distorted to penetrate his skull. It was a word he had heard twittered many times by those nameless folk he had passed on the journey so far, but it was not a word he had listened to. It took on a different meaning here in Spira.

Auron was pointlessly filming a lesser gull perched on a cargo crate in the dock. It groomed a wing with its slender bill, fluttered away startled into the crystalline sky when Jecht bellowed at him. "Hey, Auron! Did you get that last match?"

"Yeah. But, I don't understand why you wanted me to. Didn't you say you have Blitzball in your Zanarkand?"

Once more, Jecht noted that odd, artless tone in Auron's voice. He popped his neck to the left and right, working off the tension of being hunched over for the last two hours, before answering. "Not a sportsman, are you?"

"Working on your form?" Braska dared as he joined the conversation.

"My form don't need no work. I'm the Great Jecht." He announced defensively, like the school boy whose honour had been offended by a classmate. "It's for my kid."

"Your son plays Blitzball?"

"Yeah, and he wants to beat his old man bad. Once, I told him to give it up. He didn't speak to me for a week! ...Wonder what he's doing now." Barely an aside. "I hope he got bigger and put on some muscle."

The man from Zanarkand found it bizarre that he could neither look Braska nor Auron in the eye, and turned to a clumsily-stacked pile of boxes. There was an uprising through his chest and into the back of his throat, a surge of melancholy that he couldn't control.

_-Oh, what's the matter? Gonna cry again? Cry, cry. That's the only thing you're good for!-_

Only, in this vision, it was not Jecht admonishing Tidus; Jecht himself had taken his son's place and the invisible tormentor was one of the bigger boys from his own youth. "Cry, cry! Cry, cry!" The taunting voices came from all directions, from many different mouths, rhythmical, like a school song. They danced around him, chubby fingers pointed accusingly, and he had nowhere to run. His mask was so leaden and the memory alone, returned to him, was enough to pull it from his face completely. Tears stood in his eyes, with one bombing down his cheek. They remained on his lower eyelashes even after he bludgeoned down the sharp uprising of unhappiness inside.

"Hey, what's the big idea?" His voice thick. "Stop shooting!"

"Hm." Auron murmured, thumbing the OFF button immediately. It was at that very moment he believed in Jecht's Zanarkand. It was really out there, somewhere, as they spoke and that sent a chill down his back. It must have existed, for the man to be so passionate about it. Something had slotted into place. The guardian felt a satisfying click that brought him closer to Jecht and Braska. These three men and three men alone in all of Spira dreamed of visiting a city that never slept.


	24. The Slayer

XXIV

_The Slayer_

Waves tumbled back in his mind, cymbals rumbling on the slick sand. The water would fizz up around them like champagne before thinning, and all the while that healing undertone of the sea. The sand was cool and soft under the weight of their hands.

Jecht and Linnya sat together eight years before, fingers interwoven. They had been like this for hours, since the swollen sun had first portended its slow but dazzling demise for the evening. It was now a throbbing motion blur in a violet sky, the light sponged by a ridge of cloud. No longer did it feel like they were holding hands and they were as one. A crisp wind teased goosebumps on their arms, but there was warmth in the lock of their hands. Jecht had his ear placed expectantly over the bump of Linnya's belly. She giggled at his unique boyish charm.

"Hey babe, we ain't settled on a name yet!"

She rolled her eyes back and scrunched her nose in thought, in that cute way that Jecht liked. "If it's a boy, how about... mm..."

At that moment, a rogue wave dumped its contents into Jecht's lap, sending the Blitz ace rocking onto his back. He was stunned, but she laughed. "If it's a boy, I think I'll call him-"

* * *

At that moment, dock number one exploded. There was a volley of debris and a low, heart-stopping clap chased by shrill screams of women and children. The man from Zanarkand jolted from his happy place as the boom rattled through the wooden boards of the S. S. Winno. Bloodied bodies were bestrewn in such unnatural, broken positions, as they had in Belvir, and his nightmare. There was only one force capable of such pitiless massacre and it announced itself, swooping upwards from behind the Blitz stadium. It was encased in chunks of circling debris that had been brought to it by gravity magic. Jecht caught an intermittent twitching eye, but Sin was well guarded in its fortified sphere. The beast oddly floated down so that it was nearly perched atop the glass dome, though not actually resting on it. Those still trapped inside the arena looked up aghast as the sun was blotted out by Sin's enormous undercarriage.

Being aboard the ship, the pilgrims were inching away. Without hesitation, Jecht took a powerful run-up and vaulted off the lip of the boat. His supple form moulded into the shape of a knife, carving through the water with a hard splash.

"Jecht!" Auron bellowed after him.

"It's the right thing to do, Auron!"

Auron noticed Jecht's body obscure until he was no longer visible. The guardian permitted himself a shallow draw on his decanter before bombing off the ship's edge and embarking upon a sluggish front crawl to the dock. Braska's steps were the faintest tap-tap-tap of his toes on the water's unbroken surface.

The dissonance was oppressive as a clot of tourists and Blitz fans alike fled from the great slayer, leaping from the docks in their droves, not caring what predators lurked in wait for them in the ocean depths.

Jecht was overtaken by that spectre of a woman that nobody else seemed to feel in Sin's presence. He was lock in an undulating crush of desperate people. At its worst it was a Tsunami, bodies toppling and becoming trampled underfoot.

The thick miasma in the air sent a knocking through his chest that shook his entire body and thrummed in his ears, the dread and the exhilaration of combat. Sweat slipped down the small of his back like the feeling legs of an insect. Blood ached in his wrists and ankles as he held the sword Auron gave him with a traction that mottled the skin on his hand. Searching within for calm, he could find nothing but dread. The grime of that night in Belvir still clung to his skin, shame pressed deep into the pores.

In a dark recess beneath a semi-collapsed arch, Jecht's mouth was clamped by a ginormous, furry hand that could probably crush his jaw. He mumbled in fearful complaint, scaling his eyes along the grey fur running up the arm, the broad chest and the feline face of a Ronso. It shushed him and trained its burning, amber gaze upwards. The roof was breathing, Sin scales suckling from a spawn that clung there. In the absence of light, it appeared as just liquid shadow, formless shapes coiling.

In his free left hand, the beastly Ronso commanded a spear: a thin, wooden shaft with taped centre for easy grip, attached to a terror-provoking blade that waved and junctioned outwards at multiple points. The wood clanked on the tile underfoot as the warrior readied its aim. A flailing backhand hooked into the encrusted back of the fiend, forcing a bestial howl of agony that, in the hollow of the archway, layered with many dreadful echoes. The Ronso silenced it with a huge yank that brought the spawn to the floor, still attached to the barbed head of the spear. It crashed to its side, crumbling the tile beneath the heft of its torso.

Jecht saw that it was a worm, but with elements of a snake, especially in the tail and its leathery gut, that appeared as it reared up in pain. Thick natural armour lined its back to form an impressive carapace. That the Ronso was able to penetrate it was admirable. Slippery tendrils wriggled from its face that save from a configuration of squirming eyes much like its mother, was barely discernible from its body.

What worried Jecht most were the bony extrusions that slid from its sides, tearing holes in the thin birth pods that held them. Two abhorrent creatures -barely more than bone and organs in a translucent layer of grimy skin- were born into combat. Sin scales dropped down from their shadowy home, with the same pulsating, murderous eyes that Jecht so vividly recalled.

"Kimahri's first battle with Sin. Today is a great honour."

"Well, I'm glad someone's happy!"

Jecht's bare toes gripped the dusty tile, as one of the younglings lunged at him. The creature's attack was lumbering and witless, as the blitzer took off its veiny head with an unerring chop from his sword. Sin spawn Matris belched another horrific, maternal howl, like acid in the fissures of his brain. As with the other Spin spawn he had faced, there were no pyreflies drifting gently from the creature, but a thick smog of soot that wafted into the air.

The scales attacked in multiples. Kimahri Ronso was deft in his execution of them, the swish of his spear rending diseased flesh. Matris curled its soft belly around the back of its remaining offspring, the thick armature exposed to them. It seemed to be cautious in the face of aggressors. Kimahri certainly offered no compromise, if Jecht was not a little apprehensive. He noticed a familiar swagger about the feline warrior, a naïve stance of immaturity. The spectre of Jecht's own ego still tugged at him like a phantom limb.

Kimahri charged the other youngling, targeting it as a weakness, but was smote by a flying tendril of Matris that sailed into the nose of the unguarded warrior. Kimahri growled as he flew onto his back, but seemed fit to carry on after mopping away a thin trickle of blood. Even Jecht could see that this was not a battle in which to be foolhardy. This spawn seemed defensive, especially with cub in tow. The other one, now he thought about it, was also cautious in nature, and also birthed at an alarmingly rapid rate. Were these creatures in fact trying to delay anyone in the vicinity who could fight back?

"Did we miss anything?" The even, equanimous voice of Summoner Braska.

"You took your sweet time!" cried Jecht, repelling another scale with the flat of his blade.

Auron followed up by splitting its head like an orange with one cleave of his mighty sword. The pyreflies swept past him like a moaning wind. "We obviously aren't as swift in water as you, Jecht."

And so it was four versus the hordes of Sin. Though the passage was shallow, it seemed to house a regenerating supply of Sin scales that bustled restlessly in the shadows, waiting to strike. Like a malaise that would not relent, Jecht got that notion that they were being delayed than attacked, that Sin had something awful brewing.

"Crusaders, march!"

It was a rasping voice that Auron never thought he would be so happy to hear. Beyond the archway, a legion of Crusader footsoldiers closed in, effectively pincering the spawn. There was nowhere for it to go.

"Auron!" yelled that same voice. "I want you to remember that the Crusaders were the ones to save the Warrior Monks!"

"I am a Monk no longer, captain Vigus, so your satisfaction will be short lived." The blond, bearded face smirked back.

Auron took a few moments to monitor the skills of the young Ronso. He seemed reckless and unrefined in his technique, but for one so relatively small, he showed no fear and was quite comfortable to act as the front line of the party. _Fair enough_, he thought, as long as Lord Braska stayed back and was well shielded.

The Crusaders felled Sin scales without exertion, but they fleetingly prayed for each of the dispatched, for they knew those they battled may have once been their friends or loved ones, the pyreflies that bound them in life cruelly stitched back together by whatever necromantic force that comprised Sin. Auron had never seen such a tactical offensive in one small space, but knew why. Yevon was the way of life for most of Spira's inhabitants, but Blitzball was the spark and the passion that made that life worthwhile.

A Sin scale got a lucky shot on Jecht; a spiny projectile of some sort glanced across his right thigh, drawing a thin cut through his shorts that bled more than his pain suggested. He sunk to one knee, sending his sword clattering to the floor near him and clenching the wound with locked fingers.

"Still think this was a good idea, Jecht?"

The man from Zanarkand knew his imminent words had to be the singly corniest words that ever passed his lips. He was unsure if he even believed them, or if they were what others wanted to hear, but he opened his yapper anyway. "Auron, a guardian should guard everyone who needs guardin'. Not just his summoner." He winced at the end, like someone had plucked out an eyelash. "Least, that's what I think." Auron's smug grin he could almost feel without looking.

Braska knitted Jecht's wound with a spare thought. With another, he slaughtered the spawn's remaining youngling with an infernal blast. The limp, pathetic thing slumped to the deck as a puppet would with its strings cut. Matris moaned again as that smog swarmed through the air. Sin had a great deal of pain to share and Matris' suffering infected them. It was difficult to hate something as pitiful as this.

As if a slight but crucial shift had occurred inside Matris, it took an aggressive stance, slapping its tail violently behind it. The sheer celerity of its fat appendage crushed a Crusader into the far wall, the echo of limbs shattering through the arch. Rage took Vigus and he swung his impressive double-headed halberd in all directions, cutting into the Sin scales, fighting through the gouges to his arms and legs. With his last drop of anger nearly spent, he flung his weapon at the centre of Matris' back. The contact was true and the blade sank deep into its armature with the sound of a million beetles being stomped at once.

Auron took his chance with the spawn distracted and opened its unprotected belly with a perfect horizontal stroke. Black blood exploded from the gash as it turned itself outwards, spraying Auron's jacket. Blue, stringy intestines followed, slapping onto the tile in one oozing dollop. The sound of pain was horrific as Matris' form folded in on itself.

Vigus pulled his two side arm daggers from sheaths looped over his hips and continued to liberally carve through the Sin scales until there were none left. Matris finally died moments after this.

The summoner allowed himself repose for only a moment, acutely aware Sin was still towering over them. Using the death of its spawn as a cue, it expelled the hunks of stone, metal and broken glass all over the dock area. Jecht had control over his body, but his mind froze him in place as a piece of rubble the size of his head blotted out the sun. Braska wasted no time in forging a barrier of gravitational energy to repel the flotsam. The summoner struggled to maintain the shape of his forcefield, with blocks falling dangerously close to them.

Vigus instinctively leapt under the arch, only able to watch in horror as his legions and innocent people were mortally lacerated and crushed. This was the awful thing Jecht had anticipated. Matris was only the starter course.

Sin cut a swath through the dome with its concentrated Demi blasts, more deadly shards peppering not only the panicked masses in the docks, but those still trapped in the stands. The streets were awash with blood. Another blast devastated one of the other docks, cutting off any route of escape back into town. Sin had brought them to an impasse and they were at its mercy.

Braska twirled the staff in his hand, ready to call the Fayth. "_No_! Stay back!" Jecht yelled above the screams. "Stay back..."

The man from Zanarkand spread his arms and invited Sin onto him. The beast lowered gently, warping the very fabric of the stonework as it dipped past. Its cankered mouth parted as it ominously hovered over Jecht. He could smell its carrion breath from such a close distance. Though the Blitzer was utterly terrified, he remained defiant. Sin was manipulating the particles of his body, trying to somehow ingest him, as it had before.

Then, in a place somewhere behind his eyelids, that weary, enslaved woman appeared once more to speak to him. "Save me. The pain is... is too much-"

Like a captive given merely a few moments to speak freely before the black bag fell, her image was snatched from him like the tug of a cape, and Sin began its lonely ascent away from them. With a tardy, shamed turning circle, the beast simply floated away, leaving carcasses and smouldering ruin behind. It has shared its pain and now saught solace.


	25. Silence is the Loudest Sound

XXV

_Silence is the Loudest Sound_

Jecht's sword was heavy in his hand. He flung it to the ground in disgust, watched as it rattled apologetically against a wall. Luca was a vibrant place throughout the year, but now silence was the loudest sound. In this gaping silence of so many ended stories, Jecht absorbed his failure. Once more, Sin had pillaged quenchlessly and Jecht could do nothing. Sin was making him doubt his abilities, and he would not have that.

He slumped formlessly at the fringe of a dock and let his legs dangle in the ocean. It was blood red, and dusk had only recently set in the sky. The minutes inched by as Jecht stared out at a horizon with no definition. He did all to avert his view from the mosaic of bodies being neatly stacked by Crusaders behind him.

The Spirans were so composed about it. They would look at the cold, dead eyes of what was once family, and respond with impeccable dignity. Some would wipe away buds of tears. Seldom would some allow their grief to best them. Others would salute, but none felt numbness replace their whole being like he did. This vacuum represented change. The security blanket of such things as comfort, wealth and success was being sucked down into it. Spira was stripping him down to the base parts as to rebuild him. He demanded anger and it sailed up in spurts right to the back of his throat, enough to make him thud his right fist in the stony ground. _Bad move_, he thought through the dull pain, as his untrained knuckles distended with thick swelling.

From the anger and pain birthed a distilled paranoia. In their distress, the survivors would believe he was in collusion with Sin, that he had orchestrated this carnage. As a matter of course, nothing could be further from the truth. Jecht was struggling with why Sin had spared him, or indeed why the creature had declined to kill him on the other two occasions they had met.

A puckish grin was well cached by his other hand. Even in this blackest of moments, the 'old' Jecht entertained the fantasy that Sin was following him. It took the meaning of 'biggest fan' literally!

He had been osmosed once and had that lady as his only companion. There had been a place behind her that only acted in his peripheral vision. It reminded him somewhat of Macalania Forest, with blue trees bearing tortured branches. The sky was blasted with arcs of burning white light, like the place was zipping at a million miles per second through a night sky. Gold dust nebulas exploded into glorious life, withered and melted. It was the act of a billion light years condensed into fleeting, human-sized moments. He got the dizzying feeling of this nexus compacting all the forces of life and death in a storm of unseen pyreflies. Her face was trapped in a portrait of ice. The lights bled through her gaunt cheeks, yet her eyes burned.

She was not mortal like him, but a phantasm. She had a measure of control, which made her in part answerable to the atrocities, or credited with keeping down the body count. She needed and loved him; this is why the beast was stayed before it could finish everyone else.

Jecht drew a sharp breath: a paper cut of terror inside as he conceived the moment when he would be forced to deny her love. Such words could shatter her last resolve and free Sin's true deadly force on Spira. She would have to be kept guessing and yearning.

"Summoner," Captain Vigus began in his weathered voice. "Before the attack, my men had noticed a Sin spawn floundering in the water. It appeared to be dying, so we saught to kill it with harpoons as swiftly as possible."

"Why?" asked Jecht. "If it's dyin', why waste your weapons on it?"

"Because Sin _always_ returns for its spawn." The response was equal parts fatigue and distrust. Any Spiran should have known this. "We succeeded in killing the initial spawn, alas too late.

"Sin was already amassing on our borders. Thankfully, I had enough time to garner something resembling a rearguard before it hit the stadium."

In the sweeping wind, Vigus' hair was like fire, not only in its tint but the way it whipped freely from his scalp. He was staring at Jecht now with a creased eye.

"What?"

"I know who you are. You are the man who thinks he is from Zanarkand, yes?"

Jecht felt a starting in his chest, but displayed nothing. He pitched a piece of stone into the water, watching it plop and sink smoothly.

"Sin should have killed you, outlander," Vigus pressed. "Yet it didn't. Why?"

"Just lucky, I guess."

It was then that a cold prick found the carotid artery on the left side of his neck, just under the ear. He was forced around to face the business end of the captain's halberd, and the grim beast of fear roiled in his stomach. Vigus he knew was a tough son of a bitch, maybe the better of Auron through experience. An old scar meteored across his face and nose, fizzled out with time. An eye was crudely shaped, white and sightless. His brow was the overhang of a storm-battered precipice.

"Vigus..." growled Auron.

"You did this!" he spat, not acknowledging the guardian. "Sergeant! Detain this heretic. Perhaps Yevon will bestow upon our ravaged troops handsome recompense for his carcass."

Jecht knew something was dangerously off-centre with Vigus and that chilled him further. His eyes- his eye, had a rabid, unbalanced flame. He carried the weight of a man who had seen many friends perish.

"You would dare impede the pilgrimage of a summoner of Yevon?" Braska was typically unaffected by the heat of the situation. His reason brought war to Vigus' face. "That man is my guardian. I cannot complete my mission without him."

The summoner placed each word firmly so they would ignite into the skull of the enraged captain. He battled to resist the force that pulled his weapon away from Jecht's neck. A cut remained that yielded a thin rill of blood.

"But, sir." the sergeant protested. "You surely won't heed the fallen summoner Braska? He is not even endorsed by the temple!"

Retracting his weapon entirely and sheathing it across his muscled back, Vigus flighted a glance at Braska, then addressed his makeshift number two. "Aye, that may be so. But he is a summoner, nevertheless. He is willing to die for our sins." Jecht got the crazy urge to thump him in the back of the head while he was turned, but restrained himself. "If he is the one to stop all this," Vigus twisted a full circle and drew in all the suffering to him. "Then I care not whom he chooses to share his bed with."

Auron and Vigus clashed looks, and the guardian was in no small way reminded of an older Kinoc. Though they disliked each other, a great respect had been fostered between Auron and Vigus. The guardian nodded, a gesture that was barely reciprocated.

"Wait." Braska cast a unwanted look to the clash of corpses and blew the air out of his body. "There are... too many for me to send alone. I can do so much, but-"

Vigus waved away his concerns. "I shall call for others, from north and south of here, to complete the sending in your stead." To his commanding officer: "We leave."

"Yeah, you better run." Jecht uttered long after the men. The pads of his first two fingers bore a crimson trail from the smear on his neck. "Who was that asshole, Auron?"

"Captain Vigus, leader of the Crusaders." was his broody response. "Not like him, to be as hostile as that. Hmph. Time makes fools of us all, I imagine."

He chuckled to himself again before wandering off uselessly. Braska noted his guardian's off-key footfalls and deduced a mild ankle sprain. He would heal him next he had time, after the sending.

"So, what's your story, fur ball?" Jecht asked of Kimahri, who had been dutifully silent all this time.

The Ronso, powerful arms folded against his heaving chest, returned a glowing, feline stare and the man from Zanarkand thought an answer was not forthcoming. Kimahri turned away from them and flicked his eyes out on the still waters. "Kimahri's initiation from Ronso horn-moult was to escort the Blitzball team from Mount Gagazet to Luca and back safely."

A slight turn of his head and a backwards glance to the pile showed a muscular, furry arm jutting out near the bottom. "Kimahri failed this task."

"He died well." Braska averred and the Ronso hummed, a cavernous growl of shifting rocks.

"But Kimahri only become warrior of Gagazet if Elder Kelk sees this truth."

"You would make a strong guardian." The summoner added, and again the Ronso took a mountain's age to respond.

"...Kimahri's only loyalty is to Sacred Mount Gagazet."

With that, the Ronso was on his way and Braska prayed for his safe passage.

He confronted the dead with the best impassive face as he could fake. He appeared the wise and learned priest who had seen it all, but an atrocity on this scale sent invisible forces tugging the muscles of his face in a current of different directions. His lower lip was forced up, to clamp his mouth shut over any involuntary whimpers that may creep out.

He imagined the pounding in his heart at key moments in his life: gaining acceptance into the clergy, sailing out onto the great ocean bound for Navika Island, his eyes meeting hers when he got there, being there for her through the agony of childbirth, leaving Bevelle for the last time in disgrace. He wrung the fear from all those moments, mashed it together and doubled it. He would send as many as possible before he passed out through exhaustion. Such activities aged a person palpably. It was times such as this that his rationale slipped away and he hated the world. He hated that people did not get what they deserve, that evil could triumph so swiftly and so totally. The idea of things just happening for no reason pained him. He wanted destiny to tell him the suffering he and his family had endured was for an ultimate end, and not just because people were ignorant. Yevon's scrolls stated that the final victory for good would be achieved only through social purity. That made him hate those whose souls were impure.

A shake of the head brought his senses gushing back. There was a overwhelming negativity clinging to the air like a plague, hiding amongst the particles.

This act was done with great strain before he had even moved a pyrefly. Braska cordoned off the bodies by depositing heavy chunks of debris around them as a temporary funnel some thirty feet tall. This alone was fatiguing, as was the constant mental effort to ensure the structure's integrity. He left a gap in the top as he could not bear to cast these poor souls in complete darkness during their final moments.

And so, he began to dance. That elegant dance should have symbolised joy and celebration. Jecht wished to never see that dance again after Belvir. The pyreflies started to syphon out of the funnel top like smoke in a chimney and their sound was of grieving itself. It was a whiny din that the living make in times of loss.

The summoner pirouetted and shimmied for some thirty minutes before he was too ragged to physically continue. A part of the structure imploded as he relinquished his hold on it, but it held, locking the unsent within. Auron took his left arm over his shoulders and Jecht his right. Shadows began to devour Luca and so the pilgrims fled from them by boat, south west to Kilika Island.


	26. Sobering Force

XXVI

_Sobering Force_

The S. S. Winno bobbed peacefully in the ocean, out of view of Luca or anywhere else. There was but the ship, the calm blue waters and a new, muggy evening heat. It was embittering to be in the knowledge of what had happened when thrust into this blind and exotic peace.

Jecht wanted a beer so bad, he could die. The frustration reached his guts and his spine; he could feel it parch his throat and leave a lightness in his brain, the sort that set in after a long spell without food. He smeared his lips with a hard, quivering hand and tasted the salty fragments of dirt on his fingers. What frightened him was he could not verify the more dominant desire: alcohol or his old life, in Zanarkand. Both were flawed, but both were compelling. The death made him sick, and the inability to run from it. His face was naked and true and it was a face of precise misery.

"Are you well, Jecht?" asked Auron after tending to a prone Braska laid out in a hammock.

"Uh... fine, just... seasick." he stammered without turning to face him. "Sin took it... out of me. Need to... go down, s..."

Jecht failed to complete the sentence; forming words carried the weight of lead. The blitzer was addled by a swirl of malaise, and could not tame a judder that was so firm it knocked him off balance. He absconded and Auron looked after him with much to consider. The guardian did not need to draw on his wealth of interrogation experience to know Jecht was lying. A celebrated Blitz star, as close to amphibious as one could be without actually having gills, had no excuse to be seasick. He deduced withdrawal symptoms of alcohol, judging by the shakes he had observed.

A tugging glance at the Tokkuri decanter at his hip was all he permitted as his thoughts burrowed down into the inglorious times of his often broken past. Auron himself still felt an attachment to drink, despite halting its recreational use. It reminded him of the weakness of his own flesh.

The Warrior Monks was his life. So when it was ripped from him, such conventions as up and down ceased to be themselves. He floated bodilessly on air one moment and flushed sunkenly through water the next, as his former securities skirted past. Like Jecht, drink facilitated him an escape from that. Had Lord Braska not plucked him from the squalid depths of that bar, he would almost certainly be dead, one way or t'other: face down in a gutter, or skewered on the wrong end of someone's blade in a bar-room brawl.

Even his liege had confided that he was once on the wrong side of responsible drinking, in the painful months following his wife's death, and Auron visibly noticed during the even tougher weeks coming to the decision to leave Yuna. But Braska had said the drink was affecting his mind as well as his body. He had warned Auron of this. Sin was Braska's sobering force. The degradation of Auron's body -the only thing of any use to anyone- was his.

* * *

Acidic vomit splattered in a dingy, wooden corner of the cargo room. Jecht's temples were yanking in opposite directions. He hunched forward and released more cheesy puke with a drowning sound. In the mirror stared back a sallow mug attached to the body of a wraith. He noticed he was impossibly thin and angular. It must have been a hallucination, some wicked side effect, because that was not him. The weightlessness swept through his mind like shadows once more and he slipped to the boards.

Auron woke him some time later and his bleary eyes burned in their sockets.

"We soon reach Kilika. You will have to stand now."

The voice was godlike, booming through him. "No, I..."

"Fear not. In your sleep, you were administered a detox that may help with your illness, at least in the short term. Drink this."

Auron thrust a hand into his coat and produced a vial of water. Some of it escaped in rivulets from the sides of Jecht's mouth. Most of it slid down, but did not want to settle in his stomach. "I can't, I can't..."

"Code of the guardian, Jecht." Auron's words were the inexorable promise made and never forgotten. "Protect the summoner, even at the cost of one's life. This is the burden you assumed when you became Lord Braska's guardian. As long as you draw breath, you must help him."

With stout, effortless poise, the guardian hoisted Jecht to his feet and saw his true face. Auron did not know him. He had seen the brazen superstar, he had even seen the brooding and remorseful Jecht, but he had never seen this. The guardian liberally splashed his face with water from a nearby vase, as to dispel this strange man from his sight. Triggering something, the cool sensation on his skin, Jecht sprung into animation and sprinted out of there.

Auron knew that he and Jecht were guarded in their feelings and that naturally made them wary of each other, somewhat like rutting stags. Neither of them were ever truly open with each other. He was a guardian and limited his personality to a well-regulated range of emotions and responses, more liberal only his own very private moments. Jecht was expansive, but definitely had things to hide; he was playing an act to an extent. Judging by their personalities, they probably never would be frank with each other, but he would enjoy the more pleasant times like this, when one was subservient to the other. It seemed the only noncombustible time in their relationship.

* * *

"Are you well to walk, my lord?"

At the port in the north of Kilika Island, the S. S. Winno had reached anchorage and released its passengers. After the customary protestation of its rear turbine, the ship tiredly peeled from the dock and away. Small portals in the flanks of the ship cast yellow squares of light onto the dim waters.

Braska nodded and slowly disengaged from Auron, shambling with the unease of a newborn lamb, or more aptly, of a weary old bellwether.

"So, how much did we pay for the ride?" asked Jecht, seemingly past his episode.

"It is free."

"Ah, come on Auron. You don't get something for nothing, you know."

"...Maybe not in Zanarkand, but many public services are sponsored by the temple, such as the Shoopuf service over the Moonflow. The temple possesses great funds due to donations from those who follow the scriptures of Yevon."

"Everyone."

"Precisely."

Anywhere south of Luca was foreign territory to Auron and it troubled him. He was meticulous to a fault in his preparation for combat. He refused to gamble when it came to the lives of his men, and so cased potential enemy zones to the most minute detail: a latent archer's ledge secreted in a crag way above their heads, a cluster of grass that may or may not have been the harmless face of a terminal pitfall. Yet, he was in Kilika, a town with upstanding townsfolk. The threat to his lord was minimal here, but the confusion of clotted trees that seemed to march down on the town warned him of secret dangers.

* * *

Jecht was no longer able to contain the sickly growling of his stomach. A dull burn up and down his oesophagus and the tang in his saliva told him he was utterly famished.

While Jecht had always embraced life's finer things, Auron had forgotten what food was like by this point. He ate his rations without tasting, consuming unilaterally for the extraction of energy it provided. This was the disposition he had impressed upon himself. The journey was long and demanding, and such trivialities were both unimportant and tempting. How could he be an effective guardian if taste alone was enough to shake his focus?

However, watching Jecht devour a pork shank he had ordered at Kilika's First Inn, the former monk acknowledged a rippling of jealousy. His meal had been a modest fruit salad that he had already finished, leaving smears of cream across the plate. As with everything else he had eaten in the innumerate time since the pilgrimage began, it had entered his mouth, was ground into a colourless mulch and swallowed without appraisal. Only the light clink of his steel fork touching down on the plate announced he had eaten it at all.

The inn was sparsely peopled this balmy night, only he, Jecht, Braska and the maître d' in attendance. A tropical wind swerved through the valley and blew warmly on their skin. He looked out at the dopy, ovate hills that looked like they could totter over into the ocean. They were darkened to near black in the odd ebony evening that had arrived. Somewhere in his right ear, he made out the crooning palaver of a pub on the waterfront.

Jecht ate with surprising aggression, like a predator that had bested its quarry and commenced immediately on the bloody spoils. He spluttered at points. An odd gurgle erupted from his diaphragm and nestled somewhere in the back of his throat. He rid his gums of any grounded meat with a final flush of coffee. The local brew was in temperature between cold and lukewarm, leaving a undissolved sugary sediment at the bottom. He tipped the mug and enjoyed the sweet sludge that thickly slopped onto his tongue.

Whatever Auron had given him in that dark, depressingly wooden hull had induced a nostalgic effect on him. It was the two-in-the-morning munchies of a good night out times ten. He felt neither the misleading highs of drunkenness, nor the throbbing revenge of hangover. For the first time in a long time, he was alright; a machine that had been restarted and cleansed of distortion. He felt slim and light, triple distilled to screen out any crap. But in the boiler room of his mind, an ugly thought lingered on the fringe of coherency, biding its time: _you want more of Auron's magic medicine. _

The words "Shut up" were nearly spilled aloud, but he managed to wrap his lips around them.

_Just like the booze, just like the broads, this drug'll wear off and the world will be there again, as it really is._

The words were spoken to him in his mind by the cackling, I-told-you-so resonance of the 'old Jecht', a surely spent force that had seen an opening and taken it. A twitch formed on the outside of his right eye so volatile it tweaked the posture of his whole head. Auron, the damned hawk, spotted it straight away. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Jecht fibbed. A hearty belch he thought would help mask the lie.

"Hmph. I suppose you have been considering that detox I gave you earlier and its quite rapid benefits." He spoke without tone, trying to cover the tails of regret.

"You don't got no more, do ya?"

There was an increased urgency in Jecht's voice, like a fresh new addict in denial. _I can quit whenever I want._

"Jecht..." the guardian trailed and bared a significant look at Braska next to him, who appeared to be unconscious on the table. Clasping his brow, he realised he had set Jecht's foot on the slippery slope to relapse, he knew he had. _Stupid, impetuous fool!_

"That drug is not meant as a substitute for alcohol. If I gave you more, it would only be for the purposes of weening yourself away from dependency."

"Sure, sure."

"Jecht. I need your word that you will use this responsibly." It was in his hand now, mockingly pinched between finger and thumb. Jecht's eyes were transfixed on the innocuous glass container that teased a preview of green ambrosia within.

"I_promise_, Auron."

The guardian's eyes searched Jecht, seeking signs of deceit: blinking, swallowing, dilation of the pupils, perspiration. He saw nothing but still devotion to the cure in his hand and cruelly flicked it away from him and back to his coat pocket in a trice.

"Hey!"

"In the morning, when the effects of your current dose are done. Trust me, I know how this process works."

Auron had spared Jecht the agonies of reform because the thought of going through it again was the sharp run of enemy steel through his heart. He had been weak and gambled on the life of one of his men. Why in Yevon's name he carried the stuff with him anyway, he did not know. It was a dereliction of duty most heinous. He vowed to never be so undisciplined again.

* * *

It was at an imprecise point of the early hours, and Jecht thrashed desperately beneath the sheets. They were tightly creased to the shapes of his legs and torso, glued by his own sweat. He spat unformed words into the otherwise quiet air, tortured vowels of despair. His mind harboured cruel illusions that he would not remember exactly the following morn. There was a subconscious state of dread that rose up to usurp his rational self. Wide eyes with tiny pupils shot open and he lunged forwards, sweat shaking from his hair. A scream that was intended for the outside world flew back in and shook his throat. A grave chill swooped down as he peered into the black.

"Huh-huh-huh... huh-huh..." The naked blurting was that of a despondent man lost as the nightmare melted away at the corners into a faint impression amidst the vague kaleidoscope that was the night.

In the shadows moved a shape and he was positive the promising green glint of ambrosia twirled in the dark. Just leaning forward enough on a chair in the corner of the tiny room, his visitor's grey trouser leg attached to a heavy black boot peaked out under moonlight. Out stretched a hand with the glass vial held loosely. Jecht snatched it without a second's thought to how long he had been observed in such a state. He downed the potion and flung the useless container to the wooden struts to his right, breaking it with an paltry crack.

The figure stood wordlessly and opened the bedroom door. A failing orange candlelight from outside dipped his form in a perfect silhouette, and he was gone.


	27. Turning Point

XXVII

_Turning Point_

Kilika Temple leapt above the screaming green of the woods. Jecht's blade had become blunted in the flesh of fiends, and Auron had illustrated how to hone steel on wetted stone.

If combat in the snarls of a broiling forest was not test enough, the three were made to scale close to a ton of granite risers. Through the throb in his thighs and calves, Braska regaled Jecht with tales of how High Summoner Ohalland, once a renowned Blitzball player for the Kilika Beasts, trained using these steps. Jecht enjoyed the fable, if he did find the idea quaint. Ohalland couldn't have been that good if he was always needing to improve.

Half way up was an observation deck with a view that crept down into the lush, treacherous woods, cached by its dense fan leaves, an unpeopled beach beyond that and then a stark blue coupling of sea and sky.

They sat. Braska and Jecht sipped from the exquisite sight, fleeing their minds of stress and doubt. Not wishing to waste a moment of his free time, Auron chose to meditate on the events of the morn. Jecht had visibly lost weight compared to his mental still of the inebriate he had first trained nostrils on in that Bevelle holding cell. It was an imperceptible shift when living with the man for twenty-four hours of each day since. Auron recalled such things as the wobble of his hips when he landed a blow, or how his gut folded into tyres when he stooped, or how he gulped down his breaths.

Jecht was svelte now, light, toned, radiating a sureness that affected those near him. The taller of the two guardians, Jecht did have that advantage over Auron in being able to strike from a pace further back (_a point the man from Zanarkand had been keen to point out on several few occasions_). He was flailing his longsword with composure and with deceptive speed that insinuated power beyond his lithe frame. The arrogance was of course indelibly still there, but the guardian began to believe that dose of audacity offset by technical clarity gave him an interesting dynamic in battle. Quite unseen in Spira, he'd suggest, though he had no desire to oversell it. Even now, after months in the kiln of warfare, Jecht was still a newbie when set in the grand shadow of Sin, and he would have more growing up to do yet if he were to truly contribute to the pilgrimage.

Jecht dropping out of the sky one day made Auron realise that people grew up so fast in Spira, too fast, overlooking their latent youthful energy that Jecht had so jarringly brought with him.

* * *

The temple was an imperious sight, a burnished orange edifice searing the crisp blue of the sky. Molded with dyed clay by many zealous hands of yore, it took a curious arachnid form. Gnarled fingery foundations found purchase deep in the desiccated earth. At its apex were two adjacent watchtowers that looked a spider's or crab's antennae. Pocked into the temple's flesh were large spheres like marbles with a roaring flame within.

One often found preternatural activity fronting a temple. The lightning mushroom rock or the ever frozen lake of Macalania, for example. To Jecht's cynical mind, machina may well have been cleverly employed to generate these effects. Even he had flinched in surprise as the Djose cliffs burst in a storm of burning light, only to orbit unfathomably around the temple. It was cute, he would give Yevon that. Such melodrama may well have duped the great unwashed of Spira, but you couldn't bullshit a child of Zanarkand so easily.

Not stopping there, he speculated that the similarly farcical Cloister of Trials was all machina. Sheepishly, he voiced the theory to Braska. The summoner's reaction was more cautionary than reactionary. "Natural phenomena, Jecht. Please, don't offend the priests."

As the summoner swept over one of the flaming spheres braced in the tiled floor of the forecourt, Jecht knew his query was not at all resolved.

The main hall was initially dim in the after print of the brilliant blue sky. It seemed murkier than Macalania and Djose by the absence of manufactured light. Other than four equidistant torches, the whole chamber was set in gloom. The stonework underfoot was caked with dust and the air seemed difficult.

There were the familiar trio of Gandof, Ohalland and Yocun, immortalised in stone, with the same notable gap to the right of the latter, unbalancing their symmetry. Braska took a significant glance at the space and turned his attention to Ohalland, forever stood just to the left of the stairs leading to the Cloisters.

The summoner flicked the tails of his uniform behind him in a flourish and knelt before the statue. Auron joined him.

"Will you not pray with us, Jecht?" asked the summoner.

At leisure, Jecht played his eyes across the exaggerated figure. Its stern, fatherly features were nuanced, almost animated by the grudging light of a nearby torch. "I never won anything by having faith in ghosts, Braska."

"Very well." said the summoner evenly and without presumption.

Auron was already rapt in meditation. The guardian's mind had centred promptly and his senses seemed to gush open; his ears became keen to the tail end of a conference between two priests in a side room. To Braska and Jecht, the words would be a formless muffle, even if they had become aware of it, but Auron had been taught to tune his hearing to the threat of distant enemies.

"How I wish it were another, and not this tainted heretic."

"Yes, Yevon would be distraught with the events if he were alive to see them. However, I am certain the high priests of Bevelle, even in the unlikely event of his victory, would come to some sort of... arrangement."

"'Hmm? 'Arrangement'?"

"Now, now, brother. You think the histories of Spira are all accurate? Those in Bevelle filter the events of the world to fit better with the ideals that Yevon once died for. Yes, Braska may well succeed, and good for him, but they shall whitewash his unsavoury deeds of the past to something more suitable, in the end."

Auron's perception was blighted by distress and he lost the conversation. He stood hurriedly and paced past Jecht, his stare set on the fluttering sash that hid them from him. There was new intensity in his eyes, a bright and chilling glaze that cast the rest of his face in shadow. He did all he could to resist marching right in there and beating the meaning out of that mongrel.

Lead pumped into his heart. Poor lord Braska -whose entire existence had been of struggle and persecution. Even were he to defeat Sin, his plight would count for naught if it was not sealed in the tapestries of the ages with his achievement. Braska longed for social equality more than ultimate victory over Sin. The denizens of Spira would not learn anything from it if they could not understand the ignorance that festered in themselves!

What impact would these revelations have on his lord's will? Braska wanted his name to be restored, but never by deceit. It could break him to know his accomplishment would be somehow doctored then spoon fed to the masses. Auron coldly decided to lock these cruel words in the deepest chamber of his heart and to never reveal them to Braska, to protect him.

"Auron?" asked Braska.

The guardian clenched his gloved fist to his chest and vowed once more to bury his knowledge deep inside.

"C'mon, man! Let's get this done so we can get outta here."

* * *

Following the Cloister of Trials, the Hymn sounded richly through the antechamber, a low, full tenor that oscillated in the walls. The room was vast and the voice seemed to be the room, filling their bodies. Yevon's matchless icon hung on a satin tableau suspended from the roof. It seemed to sway now the pilgrims had disturbed the air.

"Can I ask you a favour, Braska?" Jecht scarcely smuggled out the words, kneading the back of his neck in the way he did when he was nervous. "Ah, forget it."

"Please, go ahead, Jecht."

"It's just... it's just I want to, uh, talk to the Fayth about somethin', somethin' important."

Braska was outwardly indifferent by this other than a gentle nuance of surprise in his voice. "You wish to enter the Chamber of the Fayth with me?"

"Preposterous!" Auron's growl attacked the walls.

"Please, Auron. It's real important! I wouldn't ask if it weren't life and death to me!"

"Whatever about that requires us to break one of the most fundamental laws of the pilgrimage?" 

"It's about Zanarkand. I've had one question that's been buggin' me all this time, since after the Farplane, constantly at the back of my thoughts, and I think only the Fayth know for sure."

The summoner played an uncertain tongue against his lower lip. Jecht was talking about his family. He reckoned his next response with great care, the silence heavy in the old air. "Auron..." he halted. "Guard the exit and alert us to other summoners."

"My Lord!-"

Auron considered a tirade about why this was a suicidal course of action, that they would be caught and excommunicated entirely by Yevon. But he thought back to the two priests and felt a degree of loathing for the establishment at that moment. "Yes sir. I shall call if I sense someone coming."

Jecht expected the heavy slab to simply shoot open like all the doors in Spira seemed to, but only when the summoner's presence was detected did it do so.

The Fayth was already there, waiting for them. The statue was a healthy orange, while the apparition was that of a young male soldier, He was olive skinned, his eyes veiled by a steel-lined blue cloth helm. His vital areas (_shoulders, chest, elbows and knees_) were reenforced by bronze armour and he wore a navy blue tunic stitched into patched cream pants to form a one-piece. His feet were in a pair of Tabi boots.

As he spoke, his inflection was boyish and possibly ardent if not for the knowledge he had been an immortal for centuries. "An unending flame burns in Spira-"

Another very human tweak of surprise preempted a quaint "Hello" in Jecht's direction, to which the man from Zanarkand nodded bashfully. "Yo."

"A guest, summoner? Only twice in history have I addressed someone who was not a summoner. Neither time was sanctioned."

Braska suddenly felt very churlish, a pup in the history of the pilgrimage. Blood flushed his cheeks beet red.

"What," asked the Fayth, "is your question, outsider?"

Jecht took a child's step forwards, halting himself at an invisible threshold. "Uh, my question is, um... You've been around a long old while and, uh, seen a lot of neat stuff wherever it is you people live." Jecht could almost feel Braska wince from behind him. "So, uh my question is... is Zanarkand still out there?" he took a draught of the tough air. "Are my wife and son safe?"

Jecht's eyes bartered with the Fayth's, but he could find nothing in the emptiness. The reply was slow and insensate. "Zanarkand lies in ruin, in both structure and its people. In a war, a great machina war of fire and death. And from the ashes emerged a dark phoenix: Sin, a force so malevolent it has enslaved the world of Spira for a thousand years."

"What about my _wife_! My _boy_!" His concerns cut straight through the thousands whose blood was the ink of Spira's past, and to the only two in his life that mattered any.

"I have no answer. I do not know them."

He needed a drink so badly.

A firm rap of Auron's fist on the outside of the cold, stone door. "Someone approaches!"

"But the Farplane!..." Jecht quietened and soldiered his thoughts. "I was on the Farplane, and I thought of them, thought real hard, and they never came. They ain't dead. But how can they possibly be alive with Zanarkand destroyed for a thousand years? How can Sin have brought me a thousand years into a world I never even knew existed?"

The questions spilled out of Jecht, bouncing off the blank visage of the Fayth. The Fayth's eyes fell coldly on him, unmoved. His chance was gone. He nodded, desperation transmuted to a suppressed disdain. He looked to Braska, who was already kneeling, and he left.

* * *

Dusk invaded the cool Kilikan sky. A failing watercolour blue from the west grappled with a thick army of ebony clouds that flew with unerring progress from the east. As he did with many of Spira's locations and all of the temples, Summoner Braska performed the prayer and didn't look back.

Past the forest, two wooden tripod beacons spewed out a roaring blaze to cast a romantic golden light on the village. Jecht could smell the smoke and feel the fire's heat in his mind. A few dotted people wandered the town, kids rulelessly footing a blitzball around before dinner, a drunken man sidling on the boards. Most however were either at home or with ale in hand at the pub, crooning old folk songs together to forget the back-breaking labour of another day or to celebrate being alive to see another sunset.

Jecht decided he would have a drink when he got back to the village. One beer wouldn't hurt, seeing he had been dry for months. He had been a good boy for so long, would not even consider this a lapse, but reward for his efforts. Screw Auron's detox, he needed the real thing. It would be just like going home, retreating to the safe haven of his old existence for just one night.

His self castigation sickened him the more he thought of it. No drink, no fun, no freedom. Always stress and struggle and suppressing his thoughts just for the benefit of Braska. He was so frustrated at having to wade through the woods again before he could get a drop past his chapped lips.

It was past midnight once they finally arrived in town. A bloodmoon had arrived and sat fat and proud in the studded sky. The woods had been less hazardous then they imagined. The veil of darkness served the travellers well. They moved with it, exercising human judgement over the moronic fiends and managed to ghost through, guided by the formation of the stars.

The First Inn was as drowsy as when they had left it two days before. The welcome rug had been worn to the point the floorboards were exposed through a lattice of string. A soft breeze riffled through the leaves of randomly placed potted plants and the burlap canopy draped over the wooden ring beam of the hut. The air was pleasant here on the skin and in the lungs. A staircase spiralled around and behind the reception area and up into the guest rooms.

The steady pitch of Auron's boots knocked through the floorboards as he unhurriedly approached the dozing old man behind the desk. The guardian simply studied him for a time. He was leant right back in a tipsy-looking chair with one leg shorter that the rest, A book curled around the index finger of his left hand.

Auron knocked his knuckles hard once on the wooden counter and the man burst into a paroxysm of life, startled and embarrassed, toppling the chair backwards.

"Sleeping on the job?" Auron asked, half mockingly, half disapprovingly.

"Oh, oh, forgive me, young sir. I was miles away."

After regaining control over his heartbeat, the attendant faced Auron and the guardian could see this man had not been sleeping well lately. His eyes were sunken, the skin lapping under. He rebooked them and Auron signed the register with an extravagantly feathered quill. He led his master up to their room, while Jecht gingerly hung back, extricating himself. He eased his foot off the first creaking riser and returned to the old men at the counter.

"Can I help you at all, young man?"

"Yeah," he rubbed his hand across his lips. "Get me that bottle of whisky, up there on the shelf. Fast." Jecht was impatient. His eyes were hard, intense, even threatening.

A cursory side glance later and the old man reached up with a groan and the popping of a unstretched shoulder. He brought it down, the sound of glass scraping on wood, and he dusted it with a rag before presenting it. Jecht snatched it away, hearing the dark liquid glug against the inside of the glass. He flicked out a coin onto the bar, not caring if he had under or overpaid.

With what he thought may have been tears close to his eyes, the man from Zanarkand lumbered through the people who were beginning to spill out of the pub. It was just like back home, only he was nothing in this world and saw no need to pretend he was someone else.

He bisected a cleft between two slanted huts and fumbled up a steep bank, his toes digging into the soft soil as he climbed. The bottle's base dragged along the ground, clinking against jutting stones at times. Once he reached the promontory, he set his tired body down and kicked his legs out over the cliff's edge.

Time and the elements had filed it away to a recurved drop. Jagged teeth congregated at the bottom, treading in the ceaseless crash of the waves.

His hands were trembling so much they made tough work of uncorking the bottle, of which Jecht did not even know the contents. He clasped the bottle high up its thin neck, tilting it back. The fluid spilled out onto his chin and onto his chest, but none of it settled in his mouth. He could smell its sickly sweet aroma now, a fortified wine.

_You're tired again, Jecht? Okay, it doesn't need to be tonight, baby..._

_They say you don't practice anymore, that you're gonna retire..._

_Stop fooling around, Jecht! I have something really important I want to say! I need you. _

_Jecht… I love you._

"No!"

The word was barely human, a noise vomited from the pit of the stomach. He repeated it thrice more, followed by a string of the vilest expletives he could conjure. He flung the bottle as he would a discus into open air. It sunk into the night, spraying its contents like a Catherine wheel. He stood, alarmed by himself, his toes curling around the grassy fringe of the precipice, and watched it bounce once off the cliff stubbornly, but shatter on the second bounce. Its dark liquid merged with the dispassionate, timeless waves and was gone.

Jecht instantly felt the adrenaline in his system thin. The knoll flipped up and smashed him in the back and he passed out then, he thought.

* * *

It was after three in the morning when Jecht returned to the inn. He had slept a little of the lip of the cliff. Upon his return, he noticed the attendant was face first on a bedroll, his snores floating up over the top of the desk. Jecht eased his way up the winding staircase, ensuring to stand at the edge of each step in the knowledge that Auron would be in a tripwire sleep.

The door fell open slowly, making a slight creak on under-oiled hinges. The light from outside prowled along Auron, who was slumped down in a chair, There was a rotting, half-eaten apple dropped on the floor near his hanging arm. In keeping with Auron's character, the exposed flesh of the fruit was obsessively chiselled on one side, untouched on the other.

Jecht tiptoed towards the bed and pulled the sheet away from Braska a little so he could fit next to him. For what seemed like hours, the man from Zanarkand stared at the roof, with no thoughts in his mind. He must have slept some that night, but only just below the surface, so it seemed he did not sleep at all.When he did awake, he just stared, paralysed beneath the weight of his age and the failures of his life, waiting for the sun to inevitably rise again.


	28. The Moment

XXVIII

_The Moment_

An excruciating amount of the campaign was spent staring at space. Varied conversations had become difficult and silence was a wedge driven between the three pilgrims. Braska and Auron stood side-by-side at the bow of the S. S. Liki. Planks groaned with the bob of the ocean, second to the hooligan cries of greater gulls dive bombing the surface.

Braska acknowledged his goal, tucked behind the gargantuan Mount Gagazet so very distant, and all else was about waiting. He was frustrated that he had not learned to shelve his ego. He had reiterated to himself he was no longer Braska -son of Josef and Maria, father to Yuna- but a tool of Yevon, on a kamikaze mission to liberate the people. It was funny; Auron would likely wish for him to disappear into this role, but Jecht would never allow it.

Besaid village was the southernmost point on the chartered map. In its temple awaited Valefor, the last Aeon before Braska could be deemed worthy of Zanarkand's final test.

As ever when he was bored, Jecht's stomach vehemently protested. He had not eaten since they left Kilika, but there was no grub aboard the lousy ship besides musty Chocobo greens in burlap sacks down in the engine room. Idly, he thumbed on the sphere camera and began to shoot his two comrades.

"After you get that Aeon from Besaid," he said, prompting Auron's attention. "Where are we goin'?"

"Back the way we came." he replied drudgingly, "Then, we go north from Bevelle and climb Mount Gagazet."

"Beyond it," added Braska. "Lies... _Zanarkand_." The word was dead, bludgeoning weight.

"Zanarkand, huh?" Jecht released a chuckle as he realised nobody had told him nor had he asked where the damned place was. It only clicked at that moment that the climate had been steadily getting warmer over the last few months. They had swept through the bitterly cold Macalania, to the generally temperate climes of Djose and Luca, and now to the positively sweaty isles of Kilika and Besaid. They had been travelling further from Zanarkand by the day.

He had been so cocksure this pilgrimage would be a formality, a pesky errand to bear and then back to his old life, but time had crept up to ensnare him. His desire for his son had steadily grown to the cusp of heartache, but it shamed him to admit the small details of Tidus' face were beginning to fade from his mind.

He backtracked down to the main deck, nearly bumping into an elderly lady, retreating from them. "It's been in ruins for a thousand years, right?"

"So the legends say." Auron replied in a tone that cared little for legends. "No one knows for sure. It still could be your Zanarkand."

Auron, of course, had not been party to Jecht and Braska's audience with Ifrit that all but assured Zanarkand's obliteration.

"Thanks for trying, Auron."

* * *

Jecht sat cross-legged up in the ship's superstructure, shoulders slouched, stomach grumbling. Mid-afternoon sunlight dappled through the Hessian sail that slumped in the mercilessly scarce wind. He was watching Auron watching the waves at the masthead, meditating as he slowly baked.

Jecht had got to thinking himself for the first time in some time, trying to pull the facts away like good meat from the gristle of a steak. The three clear facts of his predicament were this: His wife and child lived. This was irrefutable, by the laws of Spira's Farplane. So, Sin could not have transported him a thousand years into the future. If he had leapt forwards in time, it would have to be within the lifespans of his wife and son.

Sin came for him before any sort of Machina War occurred in Zanarkand; it was not the afterbirth of it, as the Fayth understood. They were clearly wrong on this one, which brought their judgement under scrutiny. They were Man-Gods, human once and fallible.

However, he could not discount Sin returning to complete Zanarkand's destruction _after_ dumping him in that pool in Macalania forest. Or even, Sin managed to 'freeze' him in that gangrenous gut, bound in time by all the pyreflies in that freaky nightmare.

If he had been transported, say, fifty years ahead, a lot could have happened in such a high-tempo city. Summoners _may_ have emerged as the Big Zee's military force, as improbable as it seemed. Casual magicks were certainly not unpractised amongst the city's youth. War may have eventually flared between Zanarkand and Bevelle, attracting Sin back to annihilate the clot of people there. Linnya and Tidus would have bailed amongst the many who fled, leaving them to resettle elsewhere.

Sin's violent entrance into his world must have been its own début, which hoisted him back inevitably to the time travel angle. _Sin had terrorised Spira for a thousand years._

Jecht huffed the air from his lungs. He was just too dumb to grasp the definitive answer that swum imperceptibly in front of his nose. His powerlessness drove him deeper inside where those dimming memories of his loved ones dwelled. He had always wished a baby brother or sister for Tidus so he would not have to feel alone any more. But he had never found the opportunity, nor the spare energy. He usually hit the town in the evenings with the boys, and Linnie had only mentioned it in passing. Maybe she had planned for it to happen around now. The thought tugged viciously at Jecht's heart.

Months had dropped off the calendar. Even the most blinkered optimist would have to wonder if they had called off the search. She may have found a new man, without the baggage of superstardom, a regular Joe who could share the quality time with them they deserved. Tidus may have respected and loved this man as the father he never had... The idea was so morbid to him he thrust it away in disgust.

He was the liquid that had faded into the ocean at Kilika cliffs, so swiftly and utterly. It struck him for the first time he may never go back. He could see this pilgrimage through, but _then what_?

Blitz psyche 101, Jecht: Don't think you have scored until you put the durned ball in the goal. Never think of the future as certain; only exist for the moment. Committing fully to the summoner would be a decent start.

Just waiting Zanarkand to come to him -for Braska to deliver it to him- he had proved to be a liability to the team. Auron was bang on the money. He had not gotten over himself, believing he was the only one with problems. He thought he had a couple of times, but all this wasted time had been a hangover. He felt as foolish now as he did on the bank of the Moonflow. Despite the promises he made that day, he was still no closer to redemption.

No one pitied him; why would they? He had woken every damned morning in this Spira with the cold knot of shame in his gut. He'd constantly embarrassed Braska and Auron, further sullied the name of the fallen summoner. Like their task wasn't big enough without a boisterous, drunken buffoon to completely drag their credibility through the dirt.

But he would repay them in spades. How, he was not yet certain, but it would need to something big, something the Spirans would idolise him for, for all time. _Nobody put Jecht away in a tiny box without a fight!_

From behind, he heard the mechanical push of the sphere camera and sighed, sealing the bubbling anger.

"I thought if I went with you guys, I might find a way to go back. But it's not that easy."

The summoner's apology was a reflex action,

"No need to apologise, Braska. It's not your fault." Jecht knew Braska knew they were moving away from Zanarkand and that he should have given Jecht a choice before they left. So he did find fault in him to some degree. But the pilgrimage, he saw now, was far more important than Jecht's personal plight, or even his life, or anybody's life. It was about rejecting the hand that was dealt to you, about sticking it to those who would enslave and destroy you.

Shifting his weight aside, he stood without turning. "I should be thinkin' about fightin' Sin now, anyway."

Here, in this sightless blue ocean, Jecht accepted his hopes had begun to wester with the falling sun. "Zanarkand can wait. But I _will_ find my way back."

Braska had the impression Jecht rehearsed this and it was not going as well as in his mind. "Be careful, Jecht." he stressed, rising gracefully to meet Jecht's fervid gaze.

"Hey, I'll be all right." In an instant, like it had all been for show, the famous boyish grin had returned. "You're the one who needs to be careful. Wouldn't want your little girl to cry."

It halted Braska. There was still much Jecht did not know about him and he wished to tell him, should have told him earlier.

"She'll be all right. She's strong... like her mother was."

The summoner became suddenly self-conscious with this device in his hands and he nearly dropped it in his clamour to switch it off.

Under his cowl whispered the metallic run of a chain against fabric as a delicate pendant appeared, pinched safely between his finger and thumb. It was a handsome, brittle silver Y. At its tip a small flower, spreading its thin petals to reveal its life within.

Jecht whistled through his teeth in appraisal of its quality. "Perty. Was it expensive?"

"Yes, but no matter. I bought Yuna one too. I told her I would always be with her, once. I said this pendant would bind us everywhere, even the Farplane. She _is_ strong." he repeated, with more conviction this time. "When we left Bevelle that first morning, remember?" Jecht nodded with a smile. "She knew where I was going and she didn't cry. I trembled in my chair, but she was... happy. With you there."

How Jecht wished Tidus had been born a girl.

"So, how're you gonna do it?" he asked, totally swinging the conversation one-eighty.

"What?"

"I mean, killin' Sin, that would change things, forever, right? How do you plan to kill off something... big like that? The Aeons?"

Braska nodded, still somewhat confused by Jecht. "One Aeon in particular. In Zanarkand, the Final Aeon awaits me."

"_Final_ Aeon?"

"Everything up to then is a test. All this, for which I apologise again, is but a prelude."

"You mean, the temples and their Aeons aren't necessary to finish the pilgrimage?"

"I'm afraid not, Jecht." he said, noting his peevish voice. "A summoner must be very special to defeat Sin. In a thousand years of innumerate attempts, only three High Summoners have been ordained."

And they were now immortalised in stone.

"You see, the Final Summoning is the only way to stop Sin. Yet, most do not get that far. It is usually the dangers of the pilgrimage that either turn a summoner's will or kill him before he reaches Zanarkand."

"So that's why you wanna go there so bad..."

"Jecht. What the Fayth said before. I don't care for it. Even if _our_ Zanarkand is nothing but a dead shell, I still believe _your_ Zanarkand exists, I really do, you know?" He shuffled gracefully to the mast, extended a slender finger to the ocean. "Out there somewhere, and I would like you to take me there, before the end."

Now Jecht was confused. Did Braska mean to say he thought there were two Zanarkands or what?

"I want to see those heaving stands!" the summoner cried above his usually dulcet tones. "The electrifying atmosphere, that blanket of noise you describe when the Abes beat the Duggles to win the cup! The Great Jecht wins another one and the fans love him for it!"

Jecht and Braska laughed at how silly they must have looked.

"I want that freedom, Jecht. There's no doubt to my mind that you will return, one day."

"One day." The words flooded his heart with security. They were on the same wavelength, after all.


	29. Mother and Undertaker

XXVIX

_Mother and Undertaker_

The S. S. Liki anchored at dawn in its latest shuttle between the southern isles. Besides the champagne fizz of the waves and the distant report of gulls yonder, there was silence. Venturing inwards, they saw atrophy encroached upon Besaid. Trees tried to heal around diseased metal as rended flesh would an enemy's snapped-off weapon. More scrap syphoned the travellers up the promontory towards the village, where a spidery ruin lunged over like some long dead fiend.

Braska broomed his hand along a leg, the scrape of dusty granite, to expose an etched Al Bhed rune. Obscure half-words bloomed raw from behind scabbed-over moss. This serene tropic once accommodated the Al Bhed, back when they were all brothers. To see but the unrotting bones of that former colony was dispiriting; the summoner had arrived centuries too late.

Pockets of activity revealed themselves as the pilgrims climbed; a lanky, sandal-footed lad hacked at branches with a machete while an impatient girl of similar age gathered them. The pilgrims spied a man down in the chasm of a grotto, its walls under lit by fluorescent water and undulating waves. With a steadying foot at the lip of his gondola, he drew back carefully on his flat bow, angling at an unseen something beneath the surface. The arrow flew into the water with a tumultuous splash that filled the grotto, the rope tied to its nock uncoiling from the floor of the boat. They heard a boiling whoop of glee as the archer heaved out a lunker, still writhing around the arrow. He wrestled the dying Trout into his wicker creel with the other sparse quarry.

As the pilgrims approached the village, Auron realised he was shooting and the camera tremored in his hand. He'd loathed this device that crystallised his dislike of Jecht, whose buffoonery he was sure would undermine and even endanger Braska's pilgrimage, and of the Al Bhed, whose will could endanger the entire world. But these feelings had lost their definition, like an old dream.

The two had switched. Once, Jecht tried to capture every inch of his little outing for some churlish family vacation video upon his return, and Auron had revelled in seeing his zeal wither as his numerous embarrassments were forever caught on sphere. For what Jecht, and indeed many Spirans did not appreciate was the pyreflies never forgot. In former massacre sites of high pyrefly concentration, such as the Moonflow, those little lights took what they had learned back to Spira with them. Or at least, this is what Lord Iaidō told him. Ever the philosophist, he believed the planet itself was a living being, the scarred mother and undertaker to all creatures. Moreover, all Spira's creations returned to the planet upon their demise, the Unsents not withstanding. The pyreflies were Spira's agents to watch over the unruly children, he said. While the solemn planet learned from our errors, we seemed not to.

Huddled around the quivering warmth of doomed embers while the others slept, Auron had replayed the footage and nostalgia returned him to imperious Bevelle and its sky scraping architecture, Macalania and its otherworldly groves, Luca's rowdy celebration of life. The future seemed like pregnant black clouds in the distance, but the past seemed to brighten all the time. Since Jecht had no more time for the past -and Braska was obviously occupied, he would record it.

When he asked himself why, he supposed Jecht was correct in his belief Spira was stagnant. There was a pervading social dysfunction that nobody was brave enough to face, and it had taken the man from Zanarkand's unique perspective to expose it. He wondered how irreversible Yevon's hold in Spiran psyches was, demanding they stay the path that had thus far gotten them nowhere. If this unassuming machina, purchased on the cheap at a well-hidden Bevelle alley shop, could store the absolute truth of Yevon's pilgrimage for the next generation of travellers, then it was okay. He imagined the Clergy would disapprove of such a recording device and it pleased him.

Jecht threw his bewildered gaze around the village of Besaid. Thinking of the main plaza in A-East paired with this squalor sent a cold prickling through his face. "Smallest heap of huts I ever seen."

"Now," said Braska as he scrutinised Besaid, like perusing mangoes at market. "That looks like a fine place to live."

Plans were taking form as his attention fixed on the middle hut of three to his right. The summoner had never graced the southern isles and he was smitten by Besaid; it made him feel invisible. "Auron."

"My lord?"

"When this is over... would you bring Yuna here? I want her to lead a life far away from this conflict." Sin... and not far behind, Bevelle and its shady politics. So much was clear from the disgust in his voice.

"You have my word. I will bring her here."

Braska, without looking back, knew the tremble in Auron's voice. He had heard it only once before, hidden beneath a drunken slur when he saved his life, when he had promised to restore Auron's good name, and his own. He imagined the guardian's eyes as they were then, misted by tears as volcanic pride surged up. His selfless Auron, always needing someone to protect, to bring bloom to his mere existence. The honour of guarding his only progeny would be Braska's final gift to him.

The summoner faced him then. "Thank you, Auron. You are a good friend."

The word was a clap of thunder in the guardian's heart. Not even Kinoc, in the death bonds of war, had ever addressed him as "friend". _Comrade_, _sir_, but never _friend_. It was bitter-sweet, a delightful, new ache in his chest and throat.

"What're y'guys doin'?" Jecht, nearly apoplectic from thirty feet away: "Let's go! I'm so hungry, I could eat a Shoopuf whole!"

Braska was reminded of that farce on the Moonflow so long ago, and he belly laughed way above his usual simper. To just laugh like that unbridled was a weight lifting from his shoulders. "Sorry. Well, let's go, then."

* * *

Jecht lay semi-conscious in his cool sweat, an arm propped across his eyes. A cat's claws on the floorboards stirred him and he laboured to sit up on his bed, his stomach folding into tight, accordion creases. With his buttocks grooved in the mattress, torsion in his back yielded a couple of satisfying pops. He rubbed his scruffy hair and blew out his cheeks as the reality of the day set in.

He was in the shelter of the Crusader's Lodge, a long tent in the centre of Besaid, upheld by salvaged stone columns and local timbers. In there, the sun could only find a warped square of boarding through a plastic portal; it was something Jecht had no wish to look at, much less step on. A lost zephyr turned into the cul-de-sac of the lodge, pooling up in the colourful tarpaulin and soothing Jecht's unwashed skin.

Following a hearty lunch of sautéed pork and mixed fruit (_during which, the attendant -a tanned youngster with an idiot's grin, had called him "brudda"_), he'd crashed. Braska lay there still to his left, asleep but not snoring, and Auron was absent, his bed made with military precision. A Crusader behind the counter seemed spuriously busy, rearranging items and scribbling nothings in his leather-bound ledger.

Outside the tent, the sun's sudden onslaught had Jecht visoring his eyes. He inspected Besaid, two rows of huts split by a cobbled path that had been beaten by innumerate wandering soles. Palm trees stooped inquisitively, swaying in the rare breeze that had followed them from the north.

The huts were fashioned from parawood of the forest, strained inwards to a tip and fastened with reeds. From the renowned hands of Besaid's weavers came canvas to pull over and rivet to the earth. The huts were so compact, people kept supplies mostly in cases piled around their homes. They would never stand up to Sin or even a gale, but neither seemed likely.

Over the centuries, the village had sloped giddily towards to the ocean on one side, bracketed by woods on the other side and the temple rendered the entire village an afterthought. Whereas Kilika temple resembled a crab, the overhung Besaid temple reminded Jecht of a giant Jellyfish that left only its desiccated corpse. Speculatively, an Al Bhed ship that had capsized offshore and in some postmodern twist, the priests had it house the Besaid chapter of Yevon. Its slight, rust-set legs caught in the soil, unconvincing in the support of its own weight.

"Remarkable, is it not?" Auron was leant against the Lodge, his sweaty jacket folded round his waist. He leisurely strode out to be aside Jecht and share his view of the temple from nearly underneath it. "The Yevon temple has no official authority in Spira. But all of the regional governors are devout Yevonites..."

"Yevon must have started from zero, Auron. Once, it must have needed to convince a heck of lot of people to its cause."

"I think Sin did their work for them." was the guardian's grim response. "After it annihilated all machina insurrections, the priests only needed to say, 'I told you so'. Elusive are Yevon, at the best of times. There are no freely-available records and the populace is so immersed in Yevon's influence that they never question it. This is why summoners are so beloved. They're Spira's only sanctioned hope to defeat Sin."

"All except me, of course." said Braska, shade crawling over him as he dozily emerged from the lodge. "But then, I'm glad we aren't getting any attention."

As a sportsman who despised indifference, Jecht found that amusing. There could be no middle ground in his world, only crazed adulation or hostility. He loved it when opposition fans booed him and talked trash about his family, like it could stop him from destroying their dreams.

* * *

Incense was miasmic in the air. It made Jecht splutter noisily and provoke a stirring of heads in the firelit dinge of Besaid temple. A middle-aged man sat in the Lotus position before one of the smaller acolyte statues that circled the Great Hall. A tsunami of silver hair rushed over his scalp and dusty peasant's clothes sagged from his shoulders. His octopus-like arms seemed to arc of their own volition from his body as he repeated the quiet yet determined mantra: "Please, Lord Yevon, take my strength to heal her..."

"What're y'doin'?"

A halted silence claimed the room; even the atmospheric press of the Great Hall seemed to retreat from Jecht's question. "I, uh... got too close to Sin and..."

Sharp gasps.

"Oh, oh!" exclaimed the man orgasmically as he stood in instalments. Grasping Jecht's shaking hand in both of his like he was an angel made flesh, he said "praise be to Yevon" and broke away to perform the gesture, something the Blitzer found banal when performed out of context. "Had your memory been stronger, you would know it is blasphemous to interrupt someone in prayer."

"Oh, yeah. Prayer, right." Jecht replied coolly, pretending to remember. "What were you prayin' for, if you don't mind me askin'?"

The man's glimmering eyes darted to the statue and then back to Jecht. His features sank like wet clay. "Name's Tasgio, sonny. M'wife Elaine was bitten by a fiend when we was out fishing. Took us totally by surprise, it did! Saddens me to say the wound has got infected. Village doctor says we need antibiotics or something like that from Luca or he doesn't know what might happen to her... Now, ain't now way we can afford the trip or the medicine. I can only pray to Yevon now."

"Oh... I thought you guys only ever really prayed for summoners n' such."

"We pray for all sorts of things: crops, clean water, strong kids... good health. Life is complex and all manner of things can go wrong, don't you think? Now, will you pray with me?"

"...What can it hurt, huh?"

The man from Zanarkand hunkered gingerly and propped his good right knee in the stone tile, with the left out at a right angle. A vicious 'tackle' from Bikke "Razor" Rubicante in the '98 Blitzleague season had broken him in half. Surgery on a torn patella tendon later and debate raged that the star player of the Zanarkand Abes was not the same player.

But Jecht digressed. He and Tasgio prayed for a time and Jecht meant it.

* * *

Within the antechamber, the air had the smell of a thousand years. Summoner Braska's presence subserved the Fayth's and her shrill, straining recital of the Hymn that was more of a feeling than a sound. Her throbbing statue daubed the room in marigold light. From vacant atoms, Valefor's Fayth became, prone face down as the embalmed mortal shell in her statue was. She rose in the precise manner she had in front of the hundreds of summoners prior to Braska, outcast of Bevelle.

The summoner wanted to know what she was thinking, if indeed she was not past such human trivialities. He wondered if she saw before her a man with hopes, fears and insecurities, or just a pair of eyes in a head and a body, a tool, a vessel. Her shapeless and pre-pubescent body was a projection centuries behind, like the stars, and her voice was stunning in its maturity: "What Yevon did not know was the Al Bhed had conducted secret negotiations with Bevelle also. It seemed their allegiance was only to money. But Zanarkand only asked of the Al Bhed mundane machina that might assist them industrially and domestically. In battle, they only valued scouting droids. Their hubris lay in their unswerving belief in the summoners."

The Fayth stopped, dissatisfied by such primal expression. In a thrusting instant, she was upon and inside Braska, the force toppling him. The words melted from vocal to cerebral:

* * *

_Bevelle acknowledged the destructive potential of machina and with their limitless funds, forged an underground metal army to far surpass the ability of the summoners. The Machina war was of human wit against technology. Yevon made use of espionage and sent spies to infiltrate Bevelle. Reports came back of weapons so powerful they were fuelled by the souls of the dead, and could destroy the world of Spira several times over. There was no answer Yevon could provide._

_-Why did the war begin?_

_Why does any war begin? Greed. Bevelle's power-drunk leaders intended to enslave Yevon. He told his daughter Yunalesca to flee on the eve of the city's ultimate destruction, for he knew Bevelle would claim her as a secondary target. Inevitably, the unprepared summoners were overwhelmed by Bevelle's machina and Zanarkand was lost. Yevon, ever defiant but driven mad with grief and loathing, performed his final rite..._

* * *

Things regained form and light. Braska's unbodied darkness became the hard, weighty sense of the conscious world. He blinked once and knotted his brow. "...What did he do?"

Melding with the Fayth was never a pleasure physically. With a dull pain in his abdomen like a Chocobo Eater had slugged him, he growled as he twisted onto his front. His hat had spilled from his head and lay perilously on the edge of the stone floor. He just held it in his hands and stared stupidly at the green jewel on the forehead. The Fayth knew. They had swam the deepest canals of his mind and were offering him those long pined after answers as added incentive to finish it.

There had always been something off-centre about Spira, a pseudo reality laid on top of another so the seams sometimes showed to those who looked. He had craved Spira's mysterious truth since he were a lad, since his raven's eyes had fixed on the glowing gold sphere in that cave outside the city borders. His father had tanned his backside so hard he had been unable to sit for the rest of the day. Braska hated him for a while, but Josef's wisdom taught him to not be so reckless. "If I can do this to you, imagine what a fiend would do." The Fayth knew this because Braska knew this.

But this telling was useless without its resolution. Valefor was the last Aeon before Zanarkand; there were no more temples. It was then obvious the Final Aeon would provide the final answer. The boyish excitement he had suppressed for a quarter of a century bubbled over, a tiny snicker of joy that pitched into the Chamber and dripped down its channels.

* * *

She lay jaded in the darkness, naked and numb as she always had been. Warmth and light belonged to synapses in her brain that no longer fired. The ground was alive: mucused, internal flesh that spasmed under her. A layered, unconscious moan that might fracture a man's bones rumbled through Sin's innards. The _gloop-gleep_ of the ocean's atmospheres brought her some relief in that the beast was dreaming and not out killing. How long these relative times of peace lasted was beyond her since she had lost all concept of time, but they never seemed long enough.

She has always wondered what colour to paint the baby's room. _Tick, tock, tick, tock, the decades just fly when you're having fun!_ Eggshell? A little... bland. How did we get here again? _This is your fault for not being right handed like all good boys and girls are._ No, my fault is I was born without a penis. _Presents a certain ceiling to your progression as a Crusader, just like Yocun, does it? Excuses. You should have screwed your way to the top like all the girls. Pride, slippy like a wet fish, make me all clean if I can just get my hands on it._ Pink? Not if it's a boy. _Her fault Belvir is gone. Place you grew up and you killed them all. That wasn't me, bitch! For once, it wasn't me! You want to die, don't you? But you can't when I'm there. We're bestest friends now._ Oh, cabbage. How did I end up here? _Yocun's death is your fault. Do you like that truth? Does it make you angry, or are you too scared to feel anything else?_ Mint Green! Perfectly neutral.

"Hello, Miyoshi." The hooded boy's slender, bronzed arms blinked into existence around her neck and chest. The thoughts like bouncing bombs in her mind lost their volume. She reached up and curled her battle-scarred fingers around his with a blissful smile.

"You've come to visit me again... it's been so long."

"Sorry. We've been awfully busy."

"Are your games going well?"

"Uh-huh. All thanks to you."

Time had slowed to a near stop around them. The demons, whose scrabbling talons would normally drive Miyoshi deeper into her cowering self, moved at an non-threatening creep. The distant _gloop-gleep_ was now a retarded white noise.

"Yes. I feel... nice when I'm near him. Warm. I can control myself, a little. I locked a small itty bit of me away, you see. Who is he?"

A slow, barely detectable smile formed on the boy's face. "He is your husband."

"...T'Saad?" A solitary tear leaked from each of her trembling eyes.

"Mm-Hm. Now, it's time to play another game." the boy said in his relentlessly even voice.

Miyoshi strangled a breath and blew it out, her whole body withering. "I don't want to play. It hurt me last time."

"But you must!" he hissed playfully. "If you play, there may be a way to save Yocun, and to see your husband again."

"_Really_?" The word was as nude, pale and brittle as a Winter leaf.

"She's been waiting the longest time to see you. You ."

"Forever?"

"Ever and ever." If witness to this, a mortal would not be able to separate child from adult. "We need you to follow him. We can't do it any more, but you can."

"It hurt, last time. I, I'm lost. My-my soul. Going against His will. In that space, with the tuning fork." Desperation welled up her throat and from her mouth: "Please don't let him hurt my baby! My little girl!"

Bahamut shushed her. "We won't."

Miyoshi then emitted a series of racking sobs that juddered further down with each one. The thoughts of her husband, and of new disquieting noises in the dark- spindly spider's legs ignorant of the time warp, scuttling on the flesh.

"Please, go before he catches you!" implored Miyoshi. "He's coming…"

The Fayth's image went like a burning gas source suddenly sealed, and she was alone with the creature.


	30. All Prayed Out

XXX

_All Prayed Out_

A hubbub of nervous villagers blockaded the gates as the three paced across the courtyard. A gracious smile upon his face, Braska laced his fingers and awaited an explanation. From the thicket of people emerged a young girl, propelled towards them with a sumptuous woven rug draped heavily across her thin arms. Its weight had her rocking with each step. As she extended it to Braska with a trembling awe in her enormous eyes, the summoner understood the people of Besaid had noticed him. His eyes might have matched hers in passing, before his role model instincts set in.

To Auron, a stout, motherish lady supplied two fresh-baked rolls with an impish look about her. The guardian received them with a shallow nod and the crusts crunched as he forced them into his coat pockets.

Tasgio, the man from the temple with a spine like a question mark, mumbled vowels as his fingers sought a small, string-tied pouch in his jacket. He lowered it into Jecht's cupped palms.

"What's this?"

"Oh, just a little gil to help you along the way."

Jecht turned down his mouth.

"No, I insist." In his zeal, Tasgio nearly pushed the bag into Jecht's chin.

"Look, you got a sick wife and yer givin' away what little cash you have left? _Uh-uh_. Money speaks louder than prayer, buddy." Jecht closed Tasgio's fingers around the purse. "You take that and spend it on somethin' nice for your missus, medicine, a nice necklace, whatever, 'kay?"

Tasgio withdrew the coins and a perplexed bitterness crossed his face, but Jecht knew nothing should come before family; family is the most important thing in the universe.

Like disciples the common folk gathered, hoping to touch and speak to the outcast summoner, with whom they identified with most. Braska was not one for glory. It _was_ his pilgrimage, but he was a peripheral figure next to his two guardians, and he preferred it. This, he decided, was regrettable; he had planned to just waltz through to Sin without regard from others, or expectation.

"Lord Braska," the girl whimpered, "You're gunna bring the Calm?"

The summoner swished his robe behind him and perched so they were eye level. "I will. And this Calm... will be a good one."

"_Eternal?_"

"May_be_." he said with the tiniest sliver of optimism as he playfully touched the end of her nose.

Auron by now had extricated himself from the adulation and taken a begrudging Jecht with him; they were merely the guardians.

"The Calm?" Jecht muttered, angling his head slightly. Auron counted the seconds for his brain cells to engage. "Oh, yeah! I remember Braska mentionin' it now, in those woods, way back when."

"The Calm is the grace period after Sin is vanquished by a summoner. People can finally grieve the dead." said Auron, carefully panning his worried stare across the wide-eyed innocent.

"Oh, man, that blows. Yer sayin' t'me that Sin comes back, right?"

Auron blew out of his nostrils impatiently. "Do you have a head like a sieve, Jecht? Every temple we have been to has had three large statues in it, plus Yunalesca at the back. Those four High Summoners have all defeated Sin."

"So, how long does this Calm last, then?"

"Never more than a year."

"Sheesh. So, that's what," Jecht used his fingers for an abacus. "Four years, tops, out of a thousand? Why are we even bothering?"

Auron's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Sin's top of the food chain, yeah? Maybe you guys are better off just tryin' yer best not to piss her off."

Auron went to fist his open hand in frustration. He had only useless thoughts encircling a formless idea. "Because, maybe there's something the other summoners did wrong! There must be something we haven't considered. And, also... why can't it be _us_ of all people who finally change the world?"

He pushed his weight onto one side, as to salute, but he craned his neck to the sunny skies, with a hand protecting his sight. "The Eternal Calm... Is it a fool's hope?"

Summoners, born from defeatist parents and guarded by defeatist guardians, were beaten before they set out, Jecht thought. These gifts... were they to genuinely encourage Braska, or to commiserate him?

* * *

At the promontory stood an eroded stone pillar, solemn sentinel to the war-tattered coast. A dwarf wall encircled it, decayed and broken away at points. Two stone armillary rings lay partly drowned in the soil.

Braska and Auron sat in _seiza_ before the statue and prayed for a safe journey; it was the island's most ancient custom. Jecht watched them, arms folded, with an countenance of cynical amusement.

They passed raging waterfalls and slicked suspension bridges, fending off the few fiends that had found the island by sea and air. As they landed on the beach that was now dappled by other wayfarers, Jecht bemoaned them having to retrace their steps; it had been nagging him since the S. S. Liki.

"We don't have to." said Braska with a small ride of his lips. He pointed with his chin to a mossed precipice fifty feet from shore. "Come."

The summoner and Auron set out into the swell until both were waist deep. "Come on, Jecht!"

Jecht's legs flailed through the water in that awkward penguin way, toes turned up, until he could front crawl and outstrip his colleagues with a Blitzer's ease.

Secreted in the bay was the S. S. Discovery: a great Mako shark of a ship, not at all like the haggard ferries of the southern isles. The hull was decked out in gloss black, with white Yevon type spelling words Jecht did not know. The omnipresent symbol of Yevon -an eye with wings, he might describe it- was splashed arrogantly huge on the sail. Jecht bested the urge to gawp as waves raked back smooth pebbles about his feet.

As they climbed aboard, a sodden Summoner Braska greeted Zenedine, the seasoned, hawk-featured captain of the Discovery. His face was coarsely bearded with black, wiry hairs. His yellowing, jaundiced eyes appeared from below the bill of a tweed flat cap. There was no prayer of Yevon to be shared, but a handshake into a man-hug. These two men had left Yevon's charge, and Zenedine had taken the Discovery as severance.

Zenedine was one of a three-man crew: twin brothers Bikke and Rayaku were his ship hands. It paid poorly after maintenance, but the lure of the ocean-faring life, far from the tangle of Spira's woes, was considerable.

Following the routine introductions and catch-ups, they cast off on the long voyage that would circumvent the entire Djose continent. It would take weeks to conclude, and the thought left Jecht cold in the sultry heat.

* * *

Evening, and all landmasses and buoys were far from sight; even binoculars found nothing. A red dwarf smeared blood fire across the ocean as gulls cawed their intent at heedless sardine shoals.

The six men were in the mess hall below deck. Dangling sacks of limes swung as they dipped the bread given them in Besaid into piping hot beef stew. This inaugural meal was likely the most extravagant; Discovery's sizeable dried sundries would then begin to deplete.

"So, if yer done with Yevon," asked Jecht, tonguing ground meat into his left cheek, "Why'd you keep all the symbols, skipper?"

Zenedine was an unhurried man. He took a wet, considered pull on the bit of his pipe and smoke coiled around him like Evrae, a smirk tugging at his crow's feet. "What appears to be a Yevon cargo ship averts suspicion in the uncharted waters, it does, m'lad."

"We should discuss our itinerary, captain." said Auron on a serious note.

"We head north of course, between Navika and Spira main, before turning into the west coast, near Macalania lake. Can't gets you further because the waters get choppy round them parts. She's built for speed over sturdiness."

"Hmph. That means we shall have to cross the crevasses and numerous other death traps that would get us back to Macalania temple."

" 'Fraid so." Zenedine replied, lacking a shred of pity.

"Why in blazes don't we just give it all a wide berth and go right through to Zanarkand?" asked Jecht in his lingering impatience.

Zenedine parried Jecht's glare towards Braska. With his tongue, the summoner swept beef fibres from the pocket of flesh before his lower teeth before answering. "I am afraid this is as far as we go on my budget, even with our captain's generosity. I had to sell my house just to afford this." He spied a reproving look from Jecht. "It matters not. I don't need it any more. The money also covers our provisions, though rationing is necessary. The brothers are also keen fishermen."

"Cina paydc Chocobo knaahc." said Rayaku, head low and tilted as he mopped up the last of his gravy. It brought whoops to the other three in the room fluent in Al Bhed, but stemmed the flow of the conversation. The slurp and munch of unspoken eating continued for a time.

"I take it Braska," said Jecht at length, "You've been on this ship before?"

"Mm-Hm. When I was a priest." Braska eyed an illusory scene past Jecht's shoulder. "This once was an official cargo ship, transporting herbs, medicine and such from Bevelle to the temples. My goal... my dream, even, was to improve relations between the Al Bhed and the Yevonites. I believe in the core message of Yevon's teachings, but it makes no sense for mankind to be fractious when Sin is our common enemy.

"The Priests thought it to be a futile exercise, but they admired my dedication to the order and funded the trip from Bevelle to Navika-"

The final vowel jarred in his throat. Braska was navigating the minefield of a past he was only now willing to share in any depth with Jecht. "It was there I met Jenni, sister of the Al Bhed leader. During the weeks and months I spent there, observing their customs and culture, I grew most fond of this one woman in particular. I... fell for her. When Cid found out, he was furious." Braska's smile had a short half-life.

"The one man as bone-headed as the Yevon high priests. He disowned his own sister, said he wished never to see either of us again. So, we fled like teenagers in the night, back to Bevelle on this very ship.

"She didn't believe the priests would understand our love. Me, the idealist, believed the priests might well celebrate the bond between Yevon and Al Bhed, just as they had permitted first contact.

"But, she was right." His eyes rolled. "I was excommunicated, just like she had been. Our love was something to be reviled, as 'unnatural'. 'The bedfellow to a heathen is a heathen also.' That was the summary at my tribunal.

"I was kicked out of the clergy entirely and nobody would hire me after what I'd done. She was working petty jobs: waiting tables, cleaning, cooking, all under goggles that hid her eyes, and she was with child. It was us two against the entire world, it seemed. But still, our love held.

"When news reached Cid that Jenni had given birth to Yuna, well... I can only guess the ice melted in his heart, because he forgave us. So, she went out on a ship, so they might mend their bonds in the Al Bhed tradition.

"But then, Sin... um, Sin..."

The word, repeated, was a stabbing hot shard of hatred.

"She didn't make it." Auron cut in, with the intention of tact but the reality of bludgeoning. "That is all."

"And that's why you became a summoner..." The hunk of meat on Jecht's trembling fork was still suspended by his mouth.

"Yes." The summoner's face became increasingly set. The anger osmosed to his eyes. He dropped his head, squeezed his hands, elbows on the table despite what his parents had taught him. "I always found it odd how she never... turned. Such a terrible end with so much left undone, yet I saw her on the Farplane, did I not?"

"Yeah." Jecht whispered. "She was beautiful."

The summoner looked at him then, with eyes that pleaded for forgiveness. "Despite everything that happened, Jenni must have been happy, mustn't she?"

* * *

The days inched along as they might to a convict. Jecht was an avatar of frustration, pacing about the ship like a mazed hamster. His world was a 100' by 20', vermin-riddled tub. He had surplus energy that he could not expend, besides Blitz practice, masturbation and endless recitals of the Hymn, in all the keys his larynx would permit. He would jump overboard and swim abreast the ship if he thought he could keep up.

One searing afternoon that signalled they were close to Spira's equator, he and the Al Bhed engineer Rayaku were sat on the flange of the ship. Jecht, peering down, spotted Discovery's waterline, a good metre above the ocean. This was a ship used to grander parties than that of a fallen summoner. Barnacles clung to this exposed band of wood.

Rayaku's jaws crunched around a green apple. They just sat in silence, staring at nothing, thinking of nothing. The Al Bhed had no particular inclination to speak.

"You know, I used to know a Bikke. Vicious damned sumbitch of a Blitzer. Blew out my knee."

The telltale three-inch slit of keyhole surgery arced down below the offending knee. "I mean, he didn't look like you, all bones or nothin'. Weren't Al Bhed, neither. Big sucker, y'know." A flex of his neck and shoulders to signify the token strongman. "Worked out. Prob'ly took 'roids."

The interminable horizon offered no support. "They kicked him out of the league eventually. Wonder what he does with himself these days?"

"Oui yna y lusbmada duum." replied Rayaku, pitching out his half-eaten apple core for the fish.

"Yeah, guess so. My point is, I guess, well, I don't know what it is, just makin' conversation, is all."

"Ouin pnaydr csammc, ymcu."

Silence then, before Jecht slapped his thighs and stood. "Well, that was fun. We should do it again sometime."

"Un E lyh drnuf socamv uvv dra creb."

* * *

The centre of a sticky, nameless night, and Jecht was fitful around his twisted sheets. Physically shattered but trapped in full, irritating consciousness, he had jerked off twice in a half hour. In his hovel of a quarters, he heard rodents scurrying in the timber walls and floor. The predictable lift and fall of the ocean continued to agitate him.

"Nope." he said, his patience totally worn, and he flung himself to his feet.

Like a spectre he possessed the corridors. Rats absconded at the sight of him, clinging to the grub they had plundered; derelict cobwebs fluttered in shadowy corners.

A descent on jaded steps took him to the hold and he was staring again at the provisions like some fiendish eye puzzle. It was stocked with non-perishable goods: sacks of grain and rice, nuts, dried fruits and veggies, jerky. Few spices or condiments. Nothing fresh whatsoever. The man from Zanarkand hoped the grease monkeys had brought their A-games with them.

Back upstairs, and he heard loud, strangled snores drift from Auron's room. _Bastard_. Braska's door, not clicked shut, fell ajar with the creak of unoiled hinges. A cut of lamplight bled into the corridor.

Boredom commanded Jecht to pry. He could see the summoner sans helmet for the first time. Free silver hair rivered over his shoulders, lending him a youthful appearance. He was murmuring through a book as his table lamp tossed pools of shifting light around the dorm. Jecht withdrew as Braska placed the book down with a pleasant hum, but the summoner failed to spot him as he moved across the room. Jecht noticed Braska's pot belly, something he had successfully concealed behind armour plating until then. The summoner was out of shape in a big way. Instant despair came to the man from Zanarkand. In time, no matter how he resisted, his body would cede to natural decay. Braska had evidently accepted this truth, but he would always have a brilliant mind. What would Jecht have when his physique was no longer useful or desired?

Braska looked to the thin strip of darkness where Jecht had once been.


	31. Prodigal Son

XXXI

_Prodigal Son_

In a spiral of silence and darkness, Auron sat in full lotus. As he liked to do, he tortured himself with the failures of his days. Of all the scolding memories that swarmed in him like pyreflies, one dominated, when he was an eighteen year-old comet in the order of the Warrior Monks, when he learned about the story of war.

* * *

_Bevelle: six years before..._

The monsters contested a savage airborne allegro, dousing the city in ominous shade. A commanding sight that made small, small Auron quake with the hard raps of his boots through the screams and the dead and the blood that crawled the cracks of the cobblestone.

Evrae, the sacred beast-protector of Bevelle was no bedtime tale and it was the city's only credible defence from annihilation. Sin would cut liberal, bloody hews through feeble flesh and stone, and Spira's greatest city would be dust.

They shared a blue, celestial finish as they pirouetted around each other. Evrae had grace for a large creature, and made the ambling Sin seem underwater. However, Auron knew the blond-maned Wyrm lacked the blunt force to kill Sin. It was a gangly, parasitic thing, the blur of a red and blue body and purple silken wings. Evrae threw its talons at Sin's gangrenous belly and a dipping growl imploded windows above his head. He saw Kinoc, the dolt, zombified by the show when he had a task to perform.

"Stop dawdling, Kinoc!" Auron yelled, already back over his shoulder.

Kinoc assumed the trail of fruit trampled between the stone. Auron supposed his partner had no wish to be present when these doomed souls would turn. His beaded ponytails flapped behind him as he surged towards Bevelle's inner city. This would be the epicentre of the carnage, a suspicion that brought fear trickling behind his sternum.

In such an rare instance, the Monks were deployed to combat Sinspawn that would certainly fall onto the city from Sin's chasmic wounds. As cadets, their role was to safeguard civilians and treat the injured. Under no circumstances were they to engage Sinspawn, unless directly compromised.

_A blink in the sun._

Time retarded as he perceived the Sinscale arrowing at him. Auron said "Ooff!" as a stone column split next to his head with the tearing deflation of sound. He spilled onto the road, tinnatus biting into the side of his head.

A perforated eardrum. _Get over it._

The musket was in his hands. He rolled onto his back, squeezed the trigger in one motion.

The shot scraped the pod's chitin rind and boomed into a wall behind. It unfurled like some wretched dancer. Auron had time to observe the residence over him had sagged in one corner.

Three more scales meteored into the stone and blossomed in their horrid way. Wings flickered with a hostile current. He looked down at the machina weapon gripped cadaverously tight. There was a stitch of disgust in his otherwise fretful expression and he flung it to the gutter. His fingers found the handle of the thin, decorated sword at his hip. It ran from its scabbard with a whisper.

Kinoc presented his musket at shoulder level and pulled the cock back. He fired like an executioner, the volume of the spray shot enough to splatter the scale at the far right of the three; pyreflies leaked from shredded flesh like steam. Kinoc's exposed nerves had him forcing the ramrod into the barrel as a Sinscale lurched towards him with a grotesque speed. Two spines ejaculated from its muscular wings and Auron was scrambling across his comrade. He showed the sweet of his sword to catch one. The other deflected and opened him deep across the cheek. The hot rush of blood was on his face and he was alive.

Auron bundled Kinoc through the front door. The Sinscales forced them up the stairs of the leaning abode. Auron was waving his blade with a swashbuckler's indiscipline. They were too fast and too many for measured strikes. The nearest gripped its small, barbed teeth in the fabric at the end of his ankle. A panicked lunge of his leg forced it back, blinking dust from its many eyes. Kinoc dug out a short charge explosive from his belt and bowled it down the steps past Auron's head. Black arterial spray showered the wall and floor in the corner and Auron was deaf.

Kinoc tried to hoist him by his sleeve; he resisted. The world was swooping in all degrees and he had to wait to recentre. The peal in his good ear spent itself and in its place, child's moans. They were compelled up several flights of stairs.

"Aren't these damned weapons supposed to be forbidden by Yevon?"

"There's exceptions, Auron." Kinoc said in what Auron thought to be a whisper. "This is one of them."

As they skulked squat and side-on through an unlit corridor that slanted down, Auron imagined things slithery and vile climbing towards them.

He chided himself.

The door at the end smashed open with one blow of his boot. Auron winced vampirically as low sunlight flooded the room. There was a stale but pervasive death screaming at him, pressing into his pores. It began with the man sat slouched into his evening meal, broken vertebrae pushing tight the skin at the side of his neck; a thin-rolled cigarette burned into his unfeeling fingers. A woman in a red polka dress was sat in an open balcony, staring across at nothing.

But from her cradling rag doll arms, Auron saw tiny, living eyes looking back at them. Fault lines in the stone and the shriek of straining iron support rods did not augur well for the little one.

"Come on, child, it's safe."

She shook her head no.

"Dammit, just grab her, Auron!"

"Please, child, we'll bring your mother down after you. I promise."

She smeared tears on her grimy face with the heel of her hand and again shook her head.

"Enough!"

And Kinoc made his choice, striding onto the balcony to snatch her wrist. Unable to carry all three, the balcony ripped away from the building. Kinoc felt the sudden terror of flight and then Auron's steely fingers on the nape of his collar. His legs swung through and crashed into the wall, but she had left his grasp.

Auron watched as the child slipped to her end and he did not turn his gaze for he knew he had to absorb this failure. Her vanishing eyes had a bewildered hatred for him. And this, Auron decided, was the story of war: to watch innocent people die and to know you were not good enough to save them.

* * *

_Bevelle: three years before..._

Long grass reached past his peripheral sight like flame. Auron stared up at a sky graffitied by trails of cloud. In Autumn's throes, the pallid sun hung contritely near the Palace of Saint Bevelle, the edifice so tall it seemed to lean over him. For now, he luxuriated in the dewy mid-morning grass, where he thought he might vanish for a short time. He was still in a Warrior Monks uniform that had taken an exponential rate of decoration in the last three years.

A wide shadow stretched over him. "I knew you'd be here." said Kinoc. He was puffing.

Once his eyes adjusted, Auron saw Kinoc's face like old fruit, lapped by a spectrum of assaults, knew his was the same. Fighting fiends was tough. Training was tougher.

"Corporal." Auron said.

"The High Priest seeks an audience with you, sir."

Auron propped himself up on his forearms, squinted at his colleague. His tongue poked at the inside of his cheek. "The High Priest wishes to see a Major in the order, in person? ...Noble company, indeed. What is it in connection with?"

"You've gained swift renown and he is most impressed. That's all I was told." Kinoc's voice had a watered acerbity. "Another promotion, perhaps?"

"Should I not see the General about that sort of thing?"

Kinoc shrugged. "Beats me, Auron. But I don't think he'd appreciate your keeping him waiting."

* * *

His boots to a mirror sheen, Auron stood shoulders back outside the panelled oak doors of the High Priest's office. He rapped twice, but not too forwardly. Pain started in his hand, bandages seeped in orange; angry bruises leaked from beneath the edges. A scrap with a particularly irritable Snow Wolf yesterday left him with a wound that required six stitches and a course of antibiotics.

"Come."

The doors gave inwards without apparent assistance and Auron swept into the room with measured strides. Route step, march. His boots hushed through an exquisite Besaid rug. This led his eyes to the exquisite embellishments of the room: brass chandelier hanging from a high ceiling, leather seats -surprising for a man of the scroll, an Iaidō original on the wall. Auron identified it immediately: the sombre lady with the silver hair. Outrage began behind his eyes and trickled down his throat. No way would Iaidō have sold a piece so personal; it was procured after his death against any wish he would have had.

The High Priest, sat scrawling at a mahogany pedestal desk, regarded Auron over the bridge of his spectacles.

"Ah, Auron. Please." He aimed his hand at a chair over from him.

The young man claimed some seconds to simmer before he moved around and sat. His fingers locked around the arm rests as though he were to be blasted through the roof. The glass wall behind the High Priest gave him a dim aspect, but Auron could tell his few black hairs were turning to ash.

"Quite the prodigy, I hear." said the High Priest without looking up from his writings. "Major at the age of twenty two is unheard of in the Warrior Monks. Well, nearly." Now he looked up at him. "I used to be one. Alas," He poured green tea into two cups to punctuate. "I was forced into early retirement on account of a Sinspawn. Broke my back. I can move around well enough now, but what you do, I could no longer do anything like that. I get through my days now one thing at a time, things have to be _slow_."

The High Priest smiled wide at himself and Auron saw the tall, yellow teeth of a horse. The Monk took his cup in both hands and had timid sips.

"But then," The Priest continued, "it is in the past, that cruel, unchangeable thing."

_Her vanishing eyes._

Quiet for a time but for the scrabble of quill on parchment. Auron wondered if he was meant to say something.

"You were trained by Iaidō shortly before you enrolled, were you not?"

"I was."

"Rich parents I suppose, to afford such high-quality tutelage."

"I was bequest enough for Lord Iaidō to train me."

"Mm. His death, it must have been quite a blow to you, yes?"

Silence rushed into Auron's reopened wounds. The shush of paper sliding into an envelope and the press of a wax seal became amplified to his ears. A fly butted the window twice and flew away.

"Yet, it was... three years ago?"

"Four years, seven months." Auron damned himself for knowing that.

"Oh my, has it been that long?" The High Priest frowned at something on his forearm. "Who cared for you, before Iaidō, then?"

"My foster father."

"Was it a... loving relationship?"

Auron did not appreciate being psycho analysed and did not do well to mask it.

"He cared for me, I suppose. He was less of a father than a mentor. Imparted his combat and survival skills upon me from a very young age, encouraged me to train with Lord Iaidō. Had me join the Monks."

"Have you seen him since?"

"No, not once. He said as much. Forgive me, my Lord, but why I am here?"

"To the point. I expected no less."

The High Priest pulled the spectacles from his face with one hand and remained shiny pink marks on his nose. "You and my daughter Cara are on good terms, aren't you?"

"Cara... Yes. She has always been kind to me whenever I have seen her."

"I would very much like for you to take her hand."

"In marriage?"

"Yes."

"...Why?"

"My dear boy, you wear your naivety like a crest! A high-profile marriage, set to the backdrop of the Tower of Light, uplifts the spirits of Spiran people."

"A diversion."

"Maybe, but the intention is noble. And you like Cara, do you not?"

"As a friend." _Bad liar._ "My Lord, there must be more deserving candidates than I, a mere Major in the-"

"You are potentially a great hope for the people of Bevelle. A lad with great promise. While Sin forces us to cower in fear, you are a fearless young lion, with unerring ethical values. The people would see this, you know. They are smarter than one may think. Also, I see something about you. I wish the honour of having you as a partner, as a son-in-law."

"You are too kind, my lord. But, if I may speak freely?"

If Iaidō had taught him anything, it was this: never tart an undesirable truth with fancy words. "I don't believe in marrying for the wrong reasons. It is unfair on Cara, to be bound to such a sham of a marriage."  
"She may grow to love you in the way a normal wife loves a husband."

"Or she may grow to hate me, the same."

The High Priest suffocated his next sentence and there was a lull, like he was considering the weight of Auron's words. "Do you not feel this is an opportunity to unite Spira?"

"Only summoners and Blitzball players have that sort of power."

"Well, how does the position of Lieutenant General sound to you?"

"A desk job? Ah, I mean, that-that is a tremendous honour, milord."

The High Priest rose like a rusty spring and moved over to the window, carrying a clear haul to the right. From under a knotted brow, his eyes wandered the lush training grounds where aspiring summoners toiled and learned. "As you are aware, LTG Berra retires this year and there will be a vacancy. I could get you that position. Think about it, second in command."

"That would be..." Auron sighed as he pulled the trigger. "A grossly inappropriate violation of military ranking, sir."

The High Priest's shoulders dropped. He faced the young Monk now with a face like ironwood. "Allow me to put this another way. I _insist_ you marry Cara."

Auron saw menace sharpen in the High Priest's irises. The tinny taste of dread formed on his tongue. The last bubbles of life leaving him from the abyss of the Via Purifico. The majority of him was resisting as as he twisted his neck and nodded. 'Yes' tasted bad as it left his lips. He was officially a puppet.

"Fantastic!" The Priest clapped his hands with a beaming daddy's joy. He beckoned Auron to him and kissed his cheeks. The Monk was cold. "Oh, I shall tell her immediately, she'll be so thrilled!"

_Right now, through that window. Do it._

The High Priest returned to his administrative scribblings and Auron just stood there, glaring down at him with tortured gargoyle's eyes.

"Dismissed."

The Monk's booted heels swept together on the carpet, and he shot a firm military salute, not the prayer of Yevon as was expected with the clergy. Pivoting he filed, covertly enraged, out of the office. The two aides had to heave the doors open so he would not break through them.

* * *

Auron liked to consider himself a man of honesty, and he was about to commit his life to a lie. Breakfast was nearly fluorescent in the corner of the room. He was nauseously aware of his puppet marriage in the Tower of Light, theatre of the great Spiran weddings.

In the groom's dressing room, he was gazing at the wet apparition that occupied his skin. Some self-destructive urge had him fly a hard right fist into the mirror, and the blend of dull and sharp pains returned him from that murky other world. After picking shards from his knuckles, he looked again at his reflections that teemed in the fractured glass. His grey ceremonial attire- a robe, cape and silk cravat, was ill-fitting and foppish.

A knock at the door. Auron filled his lungs, smoothed down his garments and moved outside as a decent facsimile of control. Until he saw the green mile stretching out to the vanishing point of the altar and he felt a flutter in his thighs. Kinoc, his best man, was waiting for him.

"Are you well? Your hand!"

"I'll live. Just, please."

The structure climbed dizzily out of Bevelle and the air was elusive. He sought his island, the one with the long, dewy grass; only miles of inky ocean could he find. Armoured Monks stippled the long walk, some nodding and saluting as he passed. The trumpeter's a capella reminded him of a funeral amongst the Warrior Monks.

He advanced upon the main flight of steps from an angled appendage of the walkway. He spotted her on the mirror side, crowded by bridesmaids and they were on a collision course. As they came together, he felt an awe. She was lovely in her dress, white like doves. In her hands was a forest of wild flowers. Her face was veiled.

The altar was the highest thing of the man-made world. It was a tall marble upstand, wildly ornate, naturally. It was bisected by a black sash with the symbol of Yevon that condescended to look down on him. Auron counted thirty rises, but it felt like so many more. The High Priest was there and he nodded at Auron.

_Why not tap the side of your nose as well, you ass?_

The Monk lifted Cara's veil and her beauty was revealed. Brunette hair twizzled about her emerald eyes.

"You look... wonderful." His words were mere whispers just beyond his lips, not even close to her.

Dimples appeared in her cheeks as she smiled and he returned a goofy, clumsy grin, which he retracted at once.

With a gesture, the High Priest brought the music to an end. "We are here to wed this man and this woman, in matrimony."

A drizzle of applause. "Cara and Auron, do not look to the past for strength, but to the future, and to each other. Take things slowly, one thing at a time. Love is always patient and kind. It is never jealous, nor bitter. No couple begins with this perfect love. The couple grows in loving and by loving. Love is hard work. Sometimes, love will mean you will have to suffer. If not, the love is a disguised selfishness. But just as Spira is strengthened through suffering, then your relationship will grow in the valleys. There is more growth in the valleys than on the mountain tops.

"Cara, will you have Auron to be your wedded husband, to live together in the covenant of faith, hope and love? Will you listen to his inmost thoughts, be considerate and tender in your care of him, and stand by him faithfully in sickness and in health, and preferring him above all others, accept full responsibility for his every necessity for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do." Her voice was like velvet.

And so the High Priest turned to Auron. "Auron, will you have Cara to be your wedded wife, to live together in the covenant of faith, hope and love? Will you listen to her inmost thoughts, be considerate and tender in your care of her, and stand by her faithfully in sickness and in health, and preferring her above all others, accept full responsibility for her every necessity for as long as you both shall live?"

"I..."

The silence became a terrible chasm, in which all attention sucked towards him. His eyes were set on the balcony beyond the altar. He saw it rip away, and a little girl with vanishing eyes reached out to him.

"No!"

"Auron?"

"What are you doing?" yelled the Priest.

"I can't!" He could only look in her emerald eyes for a moment, for the shame was too great and he fled down the stairs at a furious pace. Then, there was an impact at the base of his skull and a plunge into dark water.

* * *

The scene was drearily familiar, only now he was on the other side of the bars: the Via Purifico. A welt under his left eye forced it shut. His face was burning. The High Priest moved in jittery shuttles, spitting venom at everything and yet nothing in particular. His voice made a lap of the sonorous dungeon and reminded Auron of the predators that awaited him.

"How dare you? How dare you embarrass _me_ like that! Why would you defile me, defile Yevon, after all the privileges that have been granted you?"

Auron pushed a loose molar with his tongue and waited for the pain to subside.

"You want the abridged answer?" The words were a deformed, bloody mess. "I think I love your daughter... yes. But, I am a fighter, and I'll never be anything else. If I can protect people, then that is the way I can change the world... there are so many innocents to save."

The High Priest went to release another tirade, but instead stared at him stupidly, so the Monk continued. "A large part of me wants a normal life, with a girl. But what is the point of a normal life, when it can be just snatched away from you? Why love someone?"

"Against my better judgment, you will not die this day. That would be too easy. You are to be dishonourably discharged from the Warrior Monks. As of this moment, you are no one."

There were sobs then from the young man, the turn of an emotional pressure valve. It was the climax of the past days and having all he treasured stripped from him as the exclamation point.

"I could have been a father to you, Auron."

Auron raised his head and blasted the Priest with his cold, tear-stained stare. "No. I had a father, once, and Yevon killed him."

* * *

_The S. S. Discovery: now..._

Auron came back from somewhere, beaded sweat on his chest this muggy evening. He towelled himself off and sat down on the edge of his bed. How long Jecht had been leant against the door frame, watching him practice the kata, he was uncertain.

"I find it incredible how a midget like you can fling that sword around without fallin' over."

"Balance and technique, Jecht. Two things your pampered city brain cannot seem to comprehend."

"Heh. That an attempt at humour?"

"Might have been."

The man from Zanarkand took the moment to enter the room and Auron's personal space while the going was good. He swooped down into a sitting position, legs crossed. "Somethin' buggin' ya, man? You've been off colour for days now."

Auron blew all the air out of his lungs.

"I've been ruminating."

"Huh?"

"Thinking about, my importance in all this. I want to make Spira a place where men like me are no longer necessary. I know that condemns me, either way. To not have a free life is... irritating, but I fear freedom too. Freedom is dangerous. As a Warrior Monk, as a guardian, there are no choices. 'You fight until you die', was the popular saying amongst the grunts. It's easier that way."

"Well, that's kinda lame."

Auron wasn't surprised.

"There's a sayin' in Zanarkand, too: winnin' ain't everything, it's the _only_ thing. Second place, where the Hell's that? If you can't make the ballsy choice, buddy, you're always gonna be second place. You're always gonna be a slave."

"But, I can't help think that I'm fooling myself for even entertaining the hope of a normal life. Like I'm destined to be nothing more than a tool, a..."

"Jackass?" Jecht dared.

"Jackass."

"Well hey, only a jackass can change the world!"

Jecht threw his arms into the air, as he had done outside Bevelle when he demanded cheering fans and crying women to send off the dead men. Auron giggled, then chuckled and finally the pair were laughing to the point of tears. Jecht really was the perfect moron.


	32. Moment of Clarity

XXXII

_Moment of Clarity_

Braska remembered Jinni the evening before it happened, flitting about the house in all directions like a gnat. She was desperate not to forget anything for every eventuality, and he told her to not be so silly. He winced in the present.

He remembered the battered freighter that would spirit the Al Bhed from the Bevelle docks to their home nation of Navika. Below a bleeding dawn, the Warrior Monks methodically herded families aboard. Braska hated their final look, like he should intervene.

He remembered, with a wailing child for a backdrop, praying wildly with tear-puckered hands. Not to Yevon, but to whatever nameless force governed fate and chaos, that bore Sin as to redress our vanity, and allowed a mother to be slaughtered and for her body to be...

He remembered the two priests discussing it the following morning as he shambled the streets of Bevelle. "Heard about what happened with Sin and those Al Bhed. Terrible business, really. I mean, for a perfectly good boat to be destroyed like that. 'Tis senseless."

And Braska remembered just smiling in a way that bemused them. No anger nor violence, only a smile with a promise. He indulged himself with how easily he could take his sight with fire, for he was already practicing for something special.

Jecht remembered the boathouse. They had in-laws round for dinner, ones he didn't much care for. Tidus' fluffy little head just about peeked over the tablecloth. In a shirt with buttons in the wrong holes, Jecht pinged his wine glass with a fingernail. "Everbuddy. I wanna talk."

He remembered Linnya trying to be mad with him as he lurched nude on the foot of the bed with his back to her. There were maggots at his heels and scaling his calves, he could feel them. As she tucked him in, he remembered his swelling, indefinable fear. Then, in a lush's moment of clarity, it hit him square in the nuts: the fear he no longer had control, and that on some creeping level, everyone hated him.

He couldn't remember their faces any more.


	33. Ambush

XXXIII

_Ambush_

Pirates had attempted a coup one especially searing afternoon. Flat, threatening demands boomed from a loudspeaker like uppercuts through a sweaty arena. When Braska formally evinced his stave, dim voltage registered in the leader's eyes and they left without fanfare. That they were Al Bhed heartened the summoner. If they had entered Navikan waters, they could dream of Spiran land again.

Back entrenched in the big blue brig, Jecht counted greater gulls with Bikke, and with more zest than was healthy. "Thirteen."

The engineer, deliberately in Rayaku's coveralls, shook his head in triumph. "Dfamja!"

"Uh-Uh!" Jecht pointed them out in turn. "Thir_teen_!"

"Dryd ec y maccan kimm. Drao ryja y kahdman vmekrd byddanh yht pmia fehkc."

"Uh, hullo! I don't speak sand language." To the passing captain: "What'd this guy just say to me?"

Zenedine's eyes flicked over him, then up. "He says that be a lesser gull, not a greater gull. There are only twelve. Pay up."

Bikke laughed hyuh-hyuh-hyuh as Al Bhed men often did and brushed his thumb over his first two fingers.

* * *

The sun dipped gingerly into the ocean, leaving its purple haze simmering and Braska watched the moon into contrast. His fingers whispered over the Besaid rug on his lap as Jecht groaned to squat and sit next to him. They watched the stars make their entrance. The world was hushed except the gentle roiling of stilled water and their own measured breathing.

"Since I was a boy," finally said the summoner, "I've always wondered what the stars are. I once believed we lived inside a sphere that had become pricked by the flak of machina wars. Then I came to think of the stars as a divine power that presides over Spira to maintain balance. A newborn emerges, so someone else must make way. Sometimes, I think it is merely an absurd spectacle draped over us to keep us sane in the darkness."

"Want a uh monogamy lesson, do ya? Them stars are all suns, just like ours, only real far away, like. See that big one there, that ain't shimmerin'?" Jecht thrust out a chewed finger. "S' a planet."

"What is this planet you speak of?"

"_Man!_" preceded that dirty laugh of his. "You guys only just crawled out of the soup, dintcha? You'd call that a world. That up there's another world, like Spira maybe, or Zanarkand… Whatever people live over there, lookin' into the sky, would see Spira in the exact same way. Bet dear old Yevon didn't teach ya that in his fancy scrolls, did he?"

"Could we ever... go there?"

It was tough to miss the eight year-old boy attempting escape from Braska's thirty-five year-old body. The Big Zee, dark caverns, other worlds, all fantasies that had taken decades to ferment in his mind. Most Spirans guarded themselves from the unknown, but this man craved everything and all beyond the mundane. That he was a fallen summoner did not surprise Jecht one bit, and the man from Zanarkand loved it.

"Anythin's possible, Braska. Get enough fuel, build a rocket ship. But that's somethin' this place couldn't do for a long time, like hundreds of years long. Not even the Al Bhed could manage it. Sorry. It was a, a pipe dream in my world, beautiful, deluded sci-fi. That world is the nearest to us, I done reckon, but still millions of miles away."

The summoner could not help but be punctured. He sighed to the solid body. "A shame such machina won't exist in my lifetime, or my daughter's."

Jecht's torso arched back and he propped himself on straightened arms. "No point worryin' about future or past. It's a game, you know, this life. You drop a bad pass, you forget it. You go through one-on-one, you don't imagine the ball in the goal, you hit the damned thing. The best players exist outside time, just a series of moments, least that's what I-"

A resounding crash from under the ship knocked Jecht over. Discovery all but capsized, slinging crates into the ocean, and water groped down onto the deck. From the cabin, Bikke dashed towards Braska, stumbling over himself. "Fa haat ramb! Ed ec Şin!"

The seas crested and troughed about them ominously. Wild-eyed Bikke turned to his captain. "Dra rimm ec pnaylrat! Cra ec maygehk, cgebban!"

"All hands!" yelled Zenedine. "Keep her steady, boys!"

Calmly and with complete conviction, Braska fleeted across the deck to retrieve his wandered staff. The bitter irony of this did not escape him. Sin was well poised to claim his life in these waters, just as it had once his beloved.

The ocean had become tumbling mountains that lambasted the ship and lashed cold misery atop them. It was all Auron's knees could do to keep him standing. With one arm hooked ironly around the mast, and the other around his summoner, he sought Jecht but was blinded by the waves. He bellowed his name into the blustering abyss of sound. Sin then he noticed, was playfully astern the ship, and swung powerfully across in a long heartbeat. Water roared onto the deck, causing his soles to slip. Sin's anguish rattled through the planks, but the slayer seemed at war with itself.

Heavily follicled arachnid legs fingered the edge of the boat and trawled a shivering monstrosity onto the deck, before the mast. Zenedine's pipe dropped from his mouth. "By Ohalland's beard..."

It was a cephalopod with changeless skin as black as hate. Corrosive sputum blotched a toothed, sphincteric mouth, which puckered with clicking echolocation. Frenzied tentacles whipped around its hide. Braska saw barbs. "Get down!"

Braska and Jecht dropped, but Auron's impulse was to sever an appendage. The thing shrank like a salted slug. A reaching female squeal plucked scales from Sin's dermis. Sinspawn Utero vined around the front third of the ship and clenched, shooting hairline fractures under their feet, varnish flaking out. It was trying to tear the Discovery in two. More poisonous tentacles flailed, making a mêlée a suicide. And the perpetuating sound... an anti-hymn of strangled cats, of burned girls.

Auron and Jecht swung madly at the scales that rooted, the blows tremoring through their bones. The onerous little buggers had a simple stratagem: swarm them until they had no energy to fight back. Auron had his Katana grabbed firmly as he batted one out of the air with the flat, but something, the wet underfoot maybe, or the scale's carapace knocked him onto one leg and Braska became exposed. A spine seemed to dart at his unsighted summoner in warped time. The Katana rattled to the wood and he sprung full-stretch like a goalkeeper. The spine lodged in his torso between his lower two ribs.

A cold burn spread quickly from his body to his limbs. He growled into the floor as blood began to spread away from him and drip between the boards.

"Auron!" Jecht propped him up, half of his face masked in blood.

"No! You're Lord Braska's guardian, not mine!"

His eyes turned up and he lost consciousness. Jecht obeyed a spurt of rage, and he flung the blade hard behind him, sending the skull cap of a Sinscale fizzing up. Another fell as he sheared off a leg with a butcher's chop. Braska blasted a group of three to dust with the fury of a million volts. But still they congregated with that deathly concerto behind.

As Jecht waved a Phoenix Down under Auron's nose, it gave him a timid nudge on the ankle. _Blitzball!_ Jecht got his frantic mitts around the wet but grippy rubber and the peace of the Blitz sphere returned in him. The discord, like the rabid fans from outside the sphere was further, further, further, gone. Sinscales had now taken the form of nervous defenders in the red and black uniforms of the Duggles. It was a 1-1 tie and they had men behind the ball. Jecht was up alone, with only him and his talent against them all. He _was_ the best, he was outside of time. Sublime magnificence was required.

Jecht's breathing was in his head, the rubbery thump of his pulse in his ears. He slung back his throwing arm and pitched the ball at a Sinscale like a trebuchet. He was heartily reminded as he scooped the ball out of flight how little relative resistance was in air. He served and kicked it so well on the volley it stunned through the face of the closest Sinscale, before rebounding to him via the upstand of the boat. Without the chore of catching it, Jecht slammed the ball with a right overhand, applying just the right amount of backspin. The blue / white blur skimmed up off the surface and crippled another scale.

Just as Jecht had played for, the ball ricocheted overhead. The defence was out of the game. His left foot gripped the mast, he surged like a dolphin into a lateral corkscrew that wrapped time around him. Kinetic energy burned through his skin; he spent it all on the sweet spot of the ball. It swerved and recurved, accelerated and sieved through the tentacles to smash the teeth of Sinspawn Utero. Though the blood had fled from Auron, leaving him a corpse grey, he found a smile for an artist with freedom.

The freak reeled, but refused to relinquish the ship. As Jecht touched down on one knee, he was staggered he'd not killed the Spawn outright. Braska ushered him onto dry wood. The summoner backpedaled to include Auron in his sphere of protection. He rested his staff on the bridge of his nose and became a lightning rod. Bolts stabbed down and coiled through his veins. His charged core effused an electromagnetic sphere that had his pendant moshing against his tunic. He forehanded the stave through as he would a morningstar, wrenching the sphere up and wide on a chain of current. It concussed and lacerated what we might call reality. He tugged back, bodily and emotionally beckoning the Aeon of lightning, Ixion. The Unicorn leapt from the metaphysical to be with its new stable master.

The equine Aeon had shapeshifted from the semblance of its statue, though humanity endured in its broad chest and shoulders particularly. Tufts of lustrous white hair populated its crest, ankles and tail. The sacrificed, dark in complexion like Ixion, had held a halberd made from sharpened Nautilus shells. The Fayth dream had transposed this weapon into a lethal slashing horn.

"Will you help us?" bid the summoner of Djose's Fayth.

It reared on its muscular hind legs and the Aeon's whinny brought Braska's neck hairs to a stand. There was latent static in the air, which the beast was able to channel into its horn. The Sinscales, a good twenty of them, began to levitate. The Spawn still refused to yield as its tentacles strained and tore. Ixion forced a giga-amp into Sinspawn Utero and its flesh melted like candle wax. With its tentacles submerged, it had become an unwitting conductor.

Ixion then yanked the carcass down to the deck like a maestro. The impact tipped up the stern slightly and exploded Utero's liquefied innards. Thick ash rose from the outspread husk as pyreflies would from something not so abhorrent. Braska hailed the Aeon as it traversed alone from the terrestrial to the abstract.

"We are _leaving_!" Zenedine declared, hopeful with the wind aft, his battered girl could outrun Sin.

Jecht hunkered down at the husk of the Blitzball, pierced on Utero's teeth. It was the only ball on the ship. "Aw, Hell."

"Huh, huh, huh."

Jecht peered back over his shoulder at Auron. The guardian wore a blood-stroked smile, likely from delirium. "You… aren't b-bad with that-that ball, are you?"

Jecht posed like the proverbial superman. "Star player of the Zanarkand Abes! And I'm a lot better than that when I'm drunk."

"It _was_ a nice m-move. Though-though, that second shot l-l-looked a l-little... rusty. Maybe it. Needs. S-Some work."

"Heh, says you."

Auron chuckled around the spine. A puzzled agony inscribed his face.

"Hey, Auron." said Jecht.

"Yeah?"

The Blitzer ripped out the spine. The gloss of new blood gushed over his blackened coat. "Oh-h... you bastard, Jecht..."

Auron failed to finish his reproach before Jecht reclined his chin and drained a healing brew down his gullet.

"Be still, old friend." The summoner's mind began to mend the shredded fibres of his abdomen.

Theirs was a Pyrrhic victory. In the bedlam, one of the Al Bhed engineers was swept overboard. Braska was shaking the brother's shoulders, trying to spare him that acquainted, soul-ending despair. The boy's remains would already be picked at by the creatures of the ocean bed. "I am afraid there can't be a sending for him. Pray with me now."

It was then he spilled angry, fettered sobs. His jade, spiralled eyes were mirrors to Braska. He saw the misery that began in his own bruised heart and looped out agelessly through the peoples of the world. The Al Bhed had no divines to pray to. Death was simply the end of things. His twin brother, that part of him, was gone.

Jecht asked Braska which of the brothers had died.

"Bikke."

"Oh. I think owed that guy money." Jecht offered Rayaku a pained glance. "We never did in Zanarkand, sendin'. Now I know why, cause they all died real peaceful, in their sleep. The few fiends we did see were those who died the wrong way. But here, they all die the wrong way, don't they."

"That's why we are here." said Braska.

"How fares your man?" asked Zenedine.

"He'll live, praise be. I repaired his wound, but he needs rest and nourishment. He lost much blood and is quite hysterical. That potion Jecht ministered will sedate him for now."

"Got sloppy, didn't he?" proposed Jecht. "Thought it was cushy out here, in the ass-end of nowhere, so he took off his body armour. Didn't even know he weren't wearin' it when Sin hit, I guess. Suppose I can't talk."

"He's the best warrior I know." Braska said. "But even the best make mistakes."

"Not me, baby."

Braska sought self-effacement, but found none.

"So, now what?" Jecht asked of everyone and nobody in particular. "We got a tub that's leaking, a mast that could break at any moment and only two people who can navigate."

"We must decide quickly, summoner." Zenedine appended. "Sin could catch up again if we delay."

Braska was lead inexorably to a grim concession.

"We go to Navika, then. We seek the aid of Cid."


	34. Dra Pymmyt uv y Cyemun

XXXIV

_Dra Pymmyt uv y Cyemun_

Between Rayaku, Zenedine and a bottle of rum, long into the night rang the ballad of Abidal Braw, Bikke's favourite.

"Where am I goin' to sleep tonight?"

Says the sailor Abidal Braw.

"You can sleep outside upon the sand."

Cried the fair young lady.

"But by morn the sun, would cook me well done, and make me skin blistered and sore."

"Then sleep under the shelf."

Cried the fair young lady.

"What courage be there?"

Says the sailor Abidal Braw.

"I have some rum on the shelf."

Cried the fair young lady.

"Well, me throat is some dry and me thirst, it be high. You'll leave me thirstin' for more."

Cried the young fair lady, "What if fiends should attack our shores?"

"I'll take 'em on three's and four's."

Says the sailor Abidal Braw.

"Then I'll let you stay with me."

Cried the fair young lady.

* * *

The heat was the tactile analogy of oily water. Swells of radiation lapped over their skin, drawing neat sweat beads that clung to arm hairs; foreheads and lower backs were slick with it.

Zenedine beached the Discovery with every year of his experience and set out the gangway. It was notably laboured with a pair of hands less. This was a shore unlike Besaid or Kilika, far closer to equatorial than tropical. Vegetation was extinct but for sporadic palm trees, and sand-scoured machina limbs stippled the sand like way markers. The click-clack of cocked rifles welcomed them. A coast sentry asked in spiky Al Bhed what they sought with Yevon symbols so proudly on display.

"E tu hud keja dfu credc ypuid ouin fyn, kukkma rayt." Zenedine spat. "Drec jaccam ec so cajanyhla byo. E ys y vannosah, fedr byccahkanc. Huha uv dras yna Yevon, yht haedran ys E."

"Cruf sa ouin byccahkanc. Ev Yevon jymiac dras, drao syo vadlr y bnaddo bahho."

Braska eased into the path of Auron before the guardian committed to something regrettable and proffered himself with stave flat on his open palms. Though the sentry's eyes were goggled, the summoner sensed a sudden uprightness, a reaction.

"Braska?" The gun sank.

"E ys lusa du caa so pnudran-eh-myf."

* * *

They blasted towards Bikanel -the citadel that the Al Bhed called Home, two feet above the sands in a rocket-propelled machina that's sheer velocity receded the dizzying heat for now. The sentry steering the speeder identified the dot-dot-dash-dot of a mirror glinting in the sun, a couple of clicks north-north west and altered his trajectory.

They wore goggles to shield their eyes from sand particles and the sun that Braska learned, from Jecht's 'monogamy' lesson, was not special. Here however, in the mercilessly clear sky and the interminable golden vista, the sun roared with the wrath of a god that was rebuking him for doubting its sovereignty. His reverie of Macalania was both vexing and nostalgic.

There was a rap at his shoulder and he twisted in his front passenger seat. Auron's face was anaemic, even slightly green. Braska's voice had to elevate above the flapping air. "I don't suppose you've ever gone faster than the top speed of a Chocobo, have you Auron?"

"Not horizontally, sir, no. I've fallen from a cliff once, but very different emotions take hold then."

To Auron's left, Jecht freed a great rising snore, spewed some word salad and lolled onto his side, using his arm for a pillow.

"Forgive me for asking, m'lord," the guardian blurted, "But do you really think you can convince Cid to help us?"

"A man has to make up for his mistakes." Braska's rehearsed answer; the expansion took longer to form. "I made mistakes, when I was about your age. I loved Jinni, but I tried to make our relationship into something more, something political." That word was fraught with vying negative feelings. "I tried so hard to show Yevon how misunderstood the Al Bhed are, that we should unite in our war against Sin. I couldn't just let it be. I tried to change the world, but I changed nothing, because politicians don't change. Neither the clergy nor Cid approved of us. So of course, I ran away with her. I wanted to forget about the world, just the two of us, far from the conflict. But Cid is a proud man and I brought shame to his people."

The summoner lapsed, a rock sliding down his throat. "I understand that now. I wanted them all to see the big picture, but I missed the small details, the ones that really matter. You know, people, relationships, the reason life is worthwhile."

He looked back at Auron to judge his response and saw an expression inch across his face from right to left: _Confusion, perhaps. Empathy?_

"You're still a young man, Auron. You're not a, a weapon, remember that. When this is finished, after you bring Yuna to Besaid, I want you to live, really live you know, for yourself. Take a rest from duty. If I cannot bring the Eternal Calm-"

"You will, sir."

"_If_ I can't, if this cruel cycle does continue, then promise me you'll forget about the world. Don't get involved. Don't make the same mistakes I did."

Auron was mind-struck with a prophecy of himself hoeing the soil on a farm far from the world of men and politics, even Sin, on the bed of a winding river. Plump livestock, a squadron of unruly kids, a wife with brunette hair and emerald eyes, and he smiled.

"I'll take that under advisement, sir."

_After all, only a jackass can change the world._

* * *

The three men were marched at gunpoint to the Tent, a make-do Command Information Centre for the Al Bhed away from their secluded Home. Essentially a plastic blue tarp yanked down and anchored around a map table and numerous uncanny machina, it was maybe more severe within than outside.

With his rifle fixed low across his navel, the sentry sauntered from the hips towards a sun-bashed cohort stationed by the opening. He indicated the pilgrims with his head and stooped inside, swatting away an inert plastic flap. A silhouette stirred within, eyes glimmering out at them. An arm crooked up from the Tent and dragged out the rest of him.

"Cid." said Braska.

Cid, Al Bhed leader, was blonde-haired with a chin beard and a bar brawler's build: squat, sturdy chest, shoulders and barrel gut. Fitted in an olive drab jumpsuit with grease-stained yellow trim, he had various zips and pouches to hold most sorts of nut, bolt and machina part. For one only a couple of years older than Braska, there were craggy lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, etched by asperity. They pulled taut in a tobacco smile as he greeted Braska.

Chuckling, his arms out, he said, "Famlusa!"

As the summoner opened to reciprocate the embrace of an old friend, Cid's hand swung down into a venomous right cross that snapped Braska onto his back, his helm and stave scattering. Auron's arm arced over his back, but Cid's sunburned bodyguard drew the barrel of his rifle true to the guardian's left eye, tut-tutted with a shake of the head.

Cid shook out his hand, spread then clenched the fingers. He saw Braska cure his split lip in a blink. "Oh yeah, I forgot. Never a scar on your pretty face, is there."

"Hey, dill weed! Want to try that on me?"

Cid ambled towards Jecht, hands on his belt, kicking his feet out, until he was in hay-maker range. Cid sucked his teeth and then erupted in smoky belly laughter, encouraged the coast sentry who held a pistol under Jecht's left ear to join in. _Hyuh-Hyuh-Hyuh._

With his index finger, he beckoned the sentry to lean forwards. "Po dra po. Sekrd fyhd du veq ouin luss ihed haqd desa, cuh. Fuimth'd fyhd du feht ib mucd eh dra Sanubia tacand fedr uin kiacdc, huf."

The Al Bhed leader renewed his predatory gaze on Braska, who was gently resetting himself.

"Well, then. How's my beautiful niece?"

"She's safe. How are you?"

"Oh, well, just grand, apart from raising two kids on my lonesome, of course. Seven years, Braska, since all this began. You could have dropped in, said 'Hi'."

"You're hardly the most accessible person, Cid, being all the way out here."

"Never stopped ya before, did it?" Cid said in his lazy drawl.

"What do you _want_, Cid?"

"You know what I want. Believe it or not, the same as you. Şin dead, for good and all. Only, the difference 'tween my folk and the sheeple of Yevon is you eat up the horse crap about _atonement_ and the _'soul' _" He mixed equal amounts distaste and quaintness into the words. "We don't put our faith in some cockamamie pilgrimage that is proven not to work! Mark my words, without machina, there's not an icicle in the desert's chance of killing Şin."

"It _cannot_ be done, Cid!"

Their argument had been _in media res_ for the longest time, rolling anywhere on the spectrum between verbal sparring and a bad turn from blows. Cid's face spelt out he could not be bothered to reignite the debate.

"So..." Braska heaved a sigh. "Am I no longer welcome to visit Home? Must I speak with you in some tent?"

"Well, I ain't sure I can trust you no more. Maybe you're a Yevon spy."

Braska pursed his eyes.

"But no, that's not right, is it?" Cid continued in a deliberate, vulturine way. He had Braska wriggling on the hook. "I wonder. You come here, as a fallen summoner. You ain't Yevon no more, and neither are your lapdogs, yet here you are, on your merry little pilgrimage. Why is that, Braska?"

The summoner rose on a vertical shear of irritation. "Are so you too blinded by rage with Yevon to appreciate we have a common enemy?"

"I don't think that's the reason, now. I know you, what makes you tick. You ain't as altruistic as you would have your boys believe. It's far more personal, I done reckon. Wanna show Yevon up for ditching ya? Or are you looking to exorcise your guilt before you sail into your Guado sunset?"

Braska's fingers whispered through the five o'clock shadow around his mouth and jaw. "I survived, and she didn't. I feel guilt every day, guilt you can't imagine, and I would have gladly swapped us if I could. I can't change what happened to Jinni, but now I have a chance to make sure what happened to her never happens to anyone else again. I will give my life to stop Sin."

"Heh." Cid halted, arms akimbo, grinning into his jumpsuit. "Well, that's the best damned news I've heard all day. You were never good enough for her, you know that? You just took her, like some pirate, and then you didn't even what it takes to protect her. Yuna's about the only thing you ever gave me, and I ain't even met her."

Cid studied him then, perceived a coil of electricity zigzag between his fingers and dwindle at the tips. "You know what, what I hate about Yevon more than anything? That they send all these summoners out to die fighting Şin. Such a waste of innocent life, for a fool's hope. But, in your case, I'll gladly make an exception."

He could see tears standing in Braska's twitching eyes. "You want yer ship fixing. Fine. I'll do it, if it stops yer durn tootin'. If I never have to see your stinking face no more. But, on one condition."

"Which is?" Braska exhaled, pendulating his jaw.

"Me and the boys are having us a little expedition. I'd very much like you and yer goons to be involved."

It was then Auron decided he really did not like Cid much.

"One of our droid scouts found a potential machina dig site, on one of the outlying islands. Go with my men and help excavate this machina, using your... special talents, and I'll have your ship up and running better than it ever was."

"Okay." Braska sighed with a sharply renounced smile. "Deal."

The summoner offered his hand. Cid snorted and hawked, unloading a volley of mucus into his palm before shaking. "Now, get them the hell out of my sight."


	35. Men and their Gods

XXXV

Men and their Gods

A three-legged transit involving a speeder, a ship and another speeder had them racing across the outlying island towards the dig site, where only the odd scrub bush and distant mesa defined this scene from some scorched, infernal nightmare.

Between being periodically agitated by the sweat behind his knees, Braska lamented their being at the mercy of the Al Bhed. Without even an inkling of their whereabouts in the barren desertscape, becoming lost or exiled would be an assured death sentence. He feared his guardians would need a lot of management for them to avoid such an end.

The speeder geared down with a descending, elastic whir and coasted to a well-judged stop. Then, the heat that had been in keen pursuit finally mugged them. In the Summer, Navika was fatally hot in the open, but the twilight of Autumn still delivered a dazing climate to those of paler complexion than the Al Bhed.

A ruck of puce-coloured men crowded a nearby oasis flecked with palm trees. Canteens and leaky buckets would dip into the water, and be passed on to runners who would upend them into the open top of a tubular steel machina. The maddening drip... drip... drip of desalinated water beneath in a tub. Others lay sun-stroked in shaded quarters huddled round the site.

The dig had commenced, with a boardwalk sloping into a submerged limbo. Steel piling retained the sand on both sides as they lowered into the cavity.

"I take it from our exchange," said Braska, "You do not like Cid, Jecht?"

"What, that jaw-juttin', baccy-chewin' sumbitch who reminds me of my pop? Heck, no. After he's helped us get off this rock, he can go swivel for what I care."

"I know how you feel, but-"

Jecht shook off Braska's hand with his shoulder and drawled something before marching into the hole... _so can you?_

"What the?"

"Please, m'lord, we should get inside before we are affected further by the sun." Auron ushered Braska into the dark.

Jecht's irises contracted to fine-tune the inner dig into vision. It was a cavern, with natural rock formations and a relative coolness that soothed him. A shaft of sunlight torched down, with a spectrum of dust bubbling within not dissimilar to pyreflies. The air was weighted with the years like sediment and Jecht had the discomforting vibe he was the first man to enter this place for a very long time. He rubbed his peeled lips and they sang in protest.

Looking back over his shoulder, the man from Zanarkand observed Braska chatting with the foreman in that now familiarly barbed Al Bhed dialect.

"Hey uh, Auron." He hooked the guardian's arm and aimed him to one side. "You got time to talk?"

Auron's eyes flicked to Braska and then into the darkness yonder. "Should we not just focus on the machina?"

"It's been sat there for centuries man, I'm sure it's not going anywhere any time soon."

"Very well." They sat on opposite rocks bordering the light column. "What's troubling you, now?"

"Nothing, really." The Blitzer's face scrunched. "I just wanted to, you know, er, give you props, for what you did back on the ship. Takin' that spike to the gut and all. That was real... brave of you, buddy."

Auron fidgeted from cheek to cheek. "I, um..."

"But, but-but-but... I wanted to take you to task, too."

"Oh. That's more like it."

"You were off balance."

Auron took a long nasal pull of the air and expelled it through his mouth. When Jecht was right, he was right. "That's never happened to me before. I was so certain I knew the Katana, and all its foibles."

"It's the way you hold your sword, obsessively square between your hands. It's no wonder you were off-balance with a big weight like that floppin' about. Trust me," Jecht thumbed his chest, "I know about balance. They wouldn't even let you enter the pool at the Abes until you built up those core muscles."

"Now wait, wasn't it I who taught you about bal-"

"Yep, really gotta build those core muscles, man. _Phew._ You could do worse than what I do, got it jacked up on my shoulder over the back. Sure, I got the guns to hold it like you do, but it's still better that way. Like all your fury raining down on 'em. Pow!"

"I noticed you stumbled upon that stance. But you concede much of your defence that way, something else I noticed as I lost count of the times my lord has healed your wounds."

"Well that's just it, smart guy. We got someone who can fix us up." His tone seemed to sharpen and flatten at once. "Besides, a little pain never hurt."

A gliding vowel ebbed somewhere behind Auron's lips. He tried once more, then settled on a throaty grumble.

"Go on." Jecht said. "Admit it, you're impressed."

"A little. But even a broken clock is correct every eleven hours. Don't get ahead of yourself."

"You are such a jerk, Auron."

"Hmph."

Jecht stood and began to plod to-and-fro. "It makes you think though, just how fine the margins are. We've been on this epic journey now for what, months, longer? We seen all sorts of cool stuff, got into all kinds of action. And it could have been over, just like that." His finger snap was sonorous in the cavern.

Auron's face tempered. "What's your point?"

"Well, what do you do, you know? There's only been three high summoners in like, a thousand years, but I've seen so many summoners out on the road with us. 99.99999% percent of 'em fail, it's that simple. I guess some lose the stomach for it, but I bet most go out the quick way. What are you supposed to do with yourself if that happens?"

Auron sighed. "It is not uncommon for a guardian to... end himself with the shame of his master's death. Their lives are bound to their summoner's."

"What about you?"

A quick haze reddened Auron's eyes; he hid them from Jecht.

"Um, I, what I meant was, do you think I could have protected him if you'd, well, if you'd uh..."

"Died?" The word tunnelled through the thick air. "You seem preoccupied with mortality. It's unhealthy. But, in answer to your question, you are a guardian. It is a privilege you have earned. Some might even consider a summoner soft for having more than one."

"Or a dope for not having more people around he can trust to have his back." He returned to his craggy perch. "Why'd you join Braska, anyhow?"

"His is a noble cause that I align myself with. Also, I owe him my life. I was... inebriated at the time and defenceless. I suppose that's why there was a part of me that hated you, because I saw that side of myself."

"It's funny. My mother-in-law said to me once, 'Can't you just... drink less, Jecht?'" he spoke in a faux gravelly squawk. "I never got along with that old battleaxe, so I couldn't be bothered to tell her: you're either an alcoholic, or you ain't. You can't be _slightly_ alcoholic. Doc could have said to me that my liver would explode and I'd die if I had one more brew, and I would have smiled at him as I cracked open a cold one. That's what it's like and I think you know what it's like, too. That... death drive that just eats you up. You forget about what's good in your life. Damn, Linnie was an angel for puttin' up with me."

His fingers darted to the space where a bottle once was. Jecht just stared dumbly at it and when he returned, Auron was staring at him.

* * *

With her back arched and her fingers clawed in the sheets, she moaned his name through decelerating spasms of rapture. A muffled giggle as he lick-kissed the slick from her inside thigh. He inched up around her belly button with his lips and tongue, between the gentle valley of her breasts as his hands roved the hourglass of her hips. He then raised his head and saw her: the bloodless, scarred mouth, the nose never realigned from its last break, the singes of grey in her raven hair, the sunken eyes marred by post-combat stress.

* * *

Jecht came to with a small jolt on the tough cave floor, his skin prickled with perspiration. He lashed out at nothing, and realised he was in a sweaty cavern in the asshole of a world he hardly knew.

"Bad dream, Jecht?"

Jecht folded himself into a sitting position and sighed without meeting Braska's gaze. He palmed away specks of dirt clinging to his back. "Somethin' like that. Just give me a minute and we'll go."

"Dryd ec y sehida oui tu hud ryja, Yevon tuk." spat an Al Bhed engineer as he dropped the last of six rounds into his revolver. He flicked his wrist inwards, swinging the cylinder into place. "Kad sujehk, huf."

"What, no breakfast in bed?"

The barrel prodded him in the back of the head.

"Fine." Jecht said through gritted teeth.

They were drilled single file into a rocky channel that devoured anything one could sense; a swirling silence and an inkiness that surpassed even Sin's cancered hide. Braska willed a flittering light over his palm that revealed dank, mossy walls. The tunnel contracted such that they were squat-walking and then slithering with no turning space. Braska heard snivels echoing from the two Al Bhed at the rear.

On the summoner's command, the human chain halted. The tunnel had divided: Straight over, or a right-hand slant. His near-light offered nothing but more black as he eased it over the chasm. Fear surged from the pit to claim him before he beat it back down in a slow breath.

"Ev oui ryja uha, E fuimt ybbnaleyda y vmyna." he called to the back.

An engineer hurriedly pulled open a flare from his military gilet, infusing the tunnel with a harsh red light.

"Idiot." coughed Jecht, as with one eye closed, he relayed it towards the front.

Braska raised the flare and observed a legion of toothed ridges across the roof of the tunnel... or what he hoped was still a tunnel. It sank into the rift and cast a fleeing corona of smoky crimson for several seconds until the light dwindled to black. There was no sound.

"Well, we certainly don't want to go that way. Watch yourselves when passing the gap."

"You know," Jecht began, "Crawling in a dark cave tunnel with my nose parked in some guy's butt was really not how I envisaged my vacation going this year."

They grunted, strained and squirmed for a time that the tunnel consumed along with everything else. By the point the roof was so low that they could only draw shallow breaths, the collective sense of claustrophobic dread had hit a low hysteria.

Fighting through visual and auditory hallucinations, Braska stretched out a tremulous hand and clutched thin air. Frantic, he heaved himself out on his belly and shrieked with laughter when he understood they were in a chamber, where they could stand. Auron had his hands on his thighs, holding back bile, reciting the mantra, "Praise be, praise be, praise be." They luxuriated in the space from some minutes, allowing their temporary insanities to drain out of them.

The darkness however was unremitting, and Braska's beacon pulled shifting, insectile shadows away from stalagmites. A natural archway had been barricaded with stone and mortar; men had sealed away whatever lay behind this wall.

"How in the blue Hell are we gonna get through now?" wailed Jecht as he bumped a futile shoulder against the granite.

"There is one way." Braska said ominously. "And I cannot believe I am actually considering it."

"My Lord?"

"I summon Valefor."

"Have you gone completely cock-a-hoop, dude? Summon an Aeon, inside this small cave? What happens if you can't control it and it goes berserk?"

"Well, in all likelihood, it would cause a cave-in and we'll be crushed to death. But I have no other solution. If we want to leave this island, I have to do this. If I want to be strong enough to defeat Sin, I have to do this. Go into the tunnel and wait for me."

Faint eddies curled about Braska's figure as he furled and unfurled with his staff freely flailing through. Helical nebulas of red, green and gold cross-faded through the spectrum as the first pyreflies bled into view. Ripples spread from his feet like the surface of a drizzly lake reflecting a rainbow. On a rising gust, the lights spiralled together to blast away the darkness of the chamber.

Strata of pyreflies fused with a shrill pitch into the brilliant silhouette of the Aeon, but the Fayth's dream was not real enough in this anti-place and the bonds between atoms failed. Darkness. Summoner Braska centred so fixedly on the Fayth statue in Besaid temple, his deprived sight moulded stippled wings of flesh, the girl's braided hair and her adolescent form set face-down in stone.

Valefor was dazzlingly manifest inside the cave and immediately thrashed against the walls. It tried to fly and butted the roof of the cavern. With a deep rend, rocks crashed down.

"Braska!" cried Auron uselessly.

He reacted, an overhead bowling swing as he fell on his hip. Ice waves latticed over him and the rock bounced with a glassy crunch. The summoner was up and staggered to the frenzied Aeon, clasping his arms around its chest. He could hear Valefor's thunderous heartbeat begin to ease.

"Yes, that's it. Rest easy. It's okay, I'm here. You've nothing to be scared of." The Aeon emitted a racking moan as it set gently on its haunches.

Valefor was a chimera in the evolutionary chain of reptile and bird, with a red mane of what may have been feathers or scales. An indigo tail the length of its body coiled behind and its horned, aquiline beak tapered sharply.

Braska released his embrace and stood aside. "Will you help us?"

Valefor expelled a snarling breath as it faced the wall. The aeon arched back its wings as the limited space would permit and then swung them powerfully together. A violent acoustic clap sent audible cracking through the masonry, but the wall stood fast.

"Try again," Braska hollered with his hands vised to the sides of his head. "I believe in you!"

Valefor smashed its leathery wings again and a sonic blast detonated through the entire chamber. Stones slammed backwards from their joints and the structure inexorably began to topple.

"Tim-ber!" yelled Jecht.

Fending off a swarm of aggravated dust particles, they clambered over the toothed courses of a newly-formed dwarf wall. To their starved eyes, thin threads of sunlight high from above represented something of a feast.

Braska spotted a ring of oil lamps fixed to the excavated walls and lit them automatically with faint jabs of his fingers. And there sat the big score, like the jewel-studded centrepiece of a royal tomb: big and bulbous, with a square fin at its top. It had been evidently transported in via a broadly burrowed tunnel behind it.

"This is quite unlike any machina I've ever seen..." whispered the summoner, wiping ancient dust with a sleeve to reveal the raised letters 'A-48'.

"Ed ec hud dra yencreb yc fa ryt rubat." said the first Al Bhed engineer.

"Hu, pid E pameaja fa ryja clunat silr pekkan, pnudran…" The other engineer approached with tentative steps, as would a true believer before the visage of his God. "Dra Al Bhed lnaydat machina vun Bevelle dryd fana cyet sekrd tacdnuo dra funmt. Ed caasc fa gabd uha vun uincamjac."

Braska leapt between the engineer and the machina. "Hu, fa sicd pino ed. Drec faybuh lyhhud vymm ehdu dra ryhtc uv Cid!"

"Ybumukeac, cissuhan, pid uin untanc yna du nabund yho vehtehkc fa syga du dra amtan yht dryd ec fryd fa crymm tu."

Auron seized him by the lapel of his jacket, whirling him about. "You don't have designs to acquire this monstrosity!"

The guardian felt the revolver's barrel press into the lymph nodes under his jawline.

"Please, Auron." said Braska. "Stand down. They have their orders."

* * *

The heat hammered them around the clammy cave opening. For once, it was welcome, unlike the bitter truth that for all they suffered finding the machina, netting secreted by foliage a mile out to sea would have led them right to it. Cid lay in wait on his ship wearing the expression of a boy tantalised by his birthday presents.

To his engineer: "Famm? Tet oui veht ed?"

"Hu, pid fa vuiht cusadrehk uv knaydan ehdanacd." He leaned in to whisper something and Cid's eyelids widened.

"I beg you, Cid. Do not unleash this evil on the world. This power is too great for the judgement of one man."

An ugly smile cracked Cid's face. "Goodbye, Braska."

"But-"

"But, nothing! We caught up on old times, I fixed your ship, now I want you the hell off my island!"

"You've seen the damage that out-of-control machina can cause!"

"Don't you dare bring my wife into this, you son-of-a-bitch!" Cid hissed. "Bevelle made an example of us machine-lovers when they first spread their teachings. They hurt us bad. Maybe it's time for a little payback."

"If you think of nothing else, think of your niece. She is in Bevelle, still."

A stress-twitch tugged Cid's brow. "Yeah." There was a long pause. "...Duly noted. Now, get out of my sight. Men, we got us some spoils to enjoy."


	36. To Old Friends

XXXVI

_To Old Friends_

A sour wind from the coast dragged squalls of sand over machina husks. The waves crawled ashore from the bright morning haze, exhausted and ready to die on the sandbars. Upon their return, the pilgrims saw a colony of Al Bhed scampering around the careened form of the S. S. Discovery. The rhythmic clanging of hammers on nail heads, a roar from the occasional smashed thumb, the divisive musky scent of tar in the air.

"Captain." said Braska.

"Summoner." Zenedine replied, not looking up as he slapped thick strokes of lacquer on the ship's prow. Honest sweat glistened in his beard.

"Are they treating her well?"

"I'll give them credit, for mechanical engineers, they don't half know how to repair a ship. Even graved her for us."

Braska's wizened lips smacked as he went to speak. "I understand Rayaku is to stay with the Al Bhed."

Zenedine hummed.

"Won't you try to convince him otherwise?"

"Nope." The captain panned the bald coastline and dispatched a plume of pipe smoke. "No use convincing a man when his heart's set. Only strengthens his conviction."

The summoner's eyes, like those of a Meerkat, darted hither and thither in search of the young man, found him plucking splinters from his hands before hauling more planks across his shoulder. "He blames me, doesn't he? For Bikke, I mean."

"That be Sin's doing, not yours." Zenedine found pause as he squinted at the banishing dawn. "Just as sure as people's lives taking turns they weren't expecting. The Al Bhed is his only family now. I think maybe it's time for me to move on too after this journey." A saw's teeth chomping through timber stole their silence. "Maybe a tad soon to retire, but if I sell the ship, I guess I'll make do."

"I suppose we all have to stop one day, old friend. Thank you, I doubt I could complete this pilgrimage without your help." They shook hands. "I _will_ end this. Soon."

The captain worked dull facial muscles into a smile that ached. "Of that, I have no doubt."

Braska turned back to the featureless desert and performed the prayer of Yevon.

* * *

With his elbows forming a bipod on the frame of the ship, lips pressed into his interlaced fingers, he watched Navika retreat as the sun curved in behind. After a half hour, he could only imagine the bobbing top of a palm tree or a dune until he was sure it was gone, and he would never see his brother-in-law again.

Acrimony, as it had been eight years ago. Time was not always a healer, Braska knew. He routinely tore the scabs from his heart, did not want the pain to subside, nor the rage. That rage that he learned to camouflage with his smile, but had gradually come to replace the marrow in his bones. His was a symbiosis with the negative energy he needed to achieve his positive goal. If one allows the pain to settle on such an injustice, would that make one, as Jecht might say, no better than any other Spiran?

His gaze fell on the still ocean, its young layer of cerulean floating on deep ink in which he was paranoid Sin stalked. He heard the rushing explosion of the bomb, its sonic boom cracking over their heads from the east, even though it was impossible for the Al Bhed to deploy without their elusive airship.

Fingers snaked into his leather travel satchel draped over the inner edge of the ship. He eased old sweated tips over the glassy surface within and it felt like fate. Pivoting so the points of his elbows rested on the frame, he was now looking inwards at the rusty metal skeleton of the mini motor ship dumped right in the centre of the deck. It was for the two Al Bhed engineers Cid had lent them to return home in at the end of the journey. The swarthy shape of Jecht was there amongst the dusk, in the bones, arresting the summoner with his stare.

"We gotta talk." he said flat.

"Yes."

The man from Zanarkand tottered towards him, hands wrestling with each other, eyes dancing the closer he got. "I don't know how to pussyfoot around things like this, so I'll just ask you straight... are you gonna die?"

And so, it came to the question. Three years of training and Braska could summon anything but the courage to answer him. The quiet between them was like a vacuum, electrically charged around its rim. His tremoring hand sank deep into the satchel and dug out a sphere recording. He almost fumbled it as it flopped into Jecht's palm. Braska went to turn away, but Jecht's other hand shot out to clutch his sleeve.

"Please, I, I... I can't, Jecht..."

The summoner wrenched himself free before the pressure behind his eyes became tears, and he started across the deck, leaving Jecht alone with the dormant object.

* * *

The brass hoop of the movie sphere sat in his grasp for a long time, representing an epoch as he tried to find the stones to push the red button on the front. An index finger hovered and the faintest of autonomous jabs filled Jecht's cabin with aqua lighting.

The sphere, actually a hemisphere, resembled a snow globe, but rather containing swirls of cloudy water, or at least the illusion of it. The nostalgia of the 'Ab-Stad' returned; perhaps this was what it was like to be in the back row.

The waves and bubbles obscured the movie's setting. It appeared to be Braska's cabin, meaning he could have filmed it five minutes before, or weeks before. He was sans helmet, with his silvery hair platted over the front of his shoulders. Typically, the summoner had a pensive air about him.

"Hello." His voice was thinned by the analogue audio filter of the cheap recorder. "Heh. This is strange. Talking to you now in your present, but in my past where I'm still very much alive, and also uncertain as to my fate." His drawing of breath resembled the crackle of a dying camp fire. "But don't mourn me. I've been walking this road for years. I don't remember what it is to have a normal life any more. I've dreamt, you know… about how it will end. In pain, in sorrow, in relief… each dream paints a new method. But the result is the same. For the people of Spira, I will summon the Final Aeon... and it will kill me."

This sphere, Jecht acknowledged, was Braska's obituary, meant for his and Auron's eyes when Sin was gone. That stupid toy he'd haggled for in some Bevelle flea market, to make a travelogue for his inevitable hero's return. He considered Braska's wistful look upon each town and temple, with his dainty little prayer each time. And only now could Jecht see why. He had not been praying for them, or contemplating the journey ahead. He had been saying goodbye… to the places he'd never see again.

The sphere slid through his fingers, bumping on the timber boards and arcing into the corner of the room, where it continued to radiate its watery light round the cabin. Braska, upside-down, became silent and still, as though the recording was damaged. Only subtle clues such as the panicked rise and fall of the summoner's chest indicated otherwise.

"I hold the memory of being alive, of being in love. At peace. But it's a memory that's becoming distant, more like a fantasy. I'm losing the small details of her face by the day and I can't stand for that. That's where you came along, Jecht. You are the one who gave me the strength to go through with this pilgrimage in the first place. You showed me again that life is sacred. Not my life, but all life. Worth fighting for with everything you've got. You showed me just what can be achieved with ambition and desire and the dogged refusal to accept defeat.

"That's why I must apologise again, profusely, for not telling you sooner. You deserve better than that."

Jecht, eyes sunken and haunted, focused on a word, one little word that was so crucial to him: sobriety, and how right now he could not connect the word with its reality. _Well, it better be a lot more colourful when we get back. A parade for Braska, vanquisher of Sin!_

"You're a good man, Jecht, a good friend. You follow Auron and myself to whatever end that may befall us, in pursuit of a dream. As that dream became more distant, like a fantasy, you still stayed with us. For that, I must commend you, Sir Jecht." Braska concluded his stanza and swivelled a little, picturing where his other guardian may have been sat. "Auron, I have so much to tell you..."

But he addressed an empty room, as Jecht was up and gone, his bare heels thudding on the new floor boards towards Zenedine's cabin. The captain dozed in his chair, head craned and his mouth drooped like a tired dog's. Jecht zeroed in on the half-empty bottle of rum in his left mitt. He carefully raised it by the neck and Zenedine's hand followed in an ignorant salute, before dropping empty to his desk.

* * *

"I-ey-u-i. No-bo-men-o. Ren-mi-ri. Yoj-yu-yo-go. Has-a-tek-a-na-e. Ku-ta-ma-e… I-ey-u-i. No-bo-"

The door rattled into the stud wall from the point of Auron's collar bone. "What in Spira is that racket!"

A cold drip trickled down his spine when he saw Jecht: flecks of vomit in his goatee, more chunks splattered in the corner of the cabin. He reeked of something that might have been used to strip paint from the ship. The bottle whirled in his hand, Sin's blood sloshing inside. "I'ma havin' a toast."

"To whom?"

There was a crooked smile splaying Jecht's face. "To old friends. Wherever they may be."

No words could the young man muster. Auron blinked at the downed image of Braska, freeze-framed at the end of a sphere recording, and his head bowed.

"Why didncha tell me sooner, man? If you'd told me as soon as we'd set out... It wouldn't have been so, hard to take. I wouldn't be, I wouldn't be drinkin' this shitty booze. Breakin' the promise I made, again."

The wicker chair opposite Jecht's rack grumbled as the guardian set himself down. His ear tuned to the rising, accusatory thrum of the sphere. "It was difficult for him, to keep this from you, more than you know."

His tone was new to Jecht: soft, sombre, trembling. "You were so carefree, so full of life, so unweighted by death. So... not Spiran. He marches to his doom, and he cannot do it without you. I personally would have made it clear to you during the briefing in Bevelle, but I was under strict orders to hold my tongue." His attempt at exoneration failed.

Jecht's red eyes trained on Auron as his head and neck revolved upwards like an owl to take another hit of the wretchedly effective spirit. His saliva glands oozed with each swig and the contents of his stomach inched closer to his oesophagus. He hawked a guttural bile cough into his hand.

"But Braska can't win, Auron... if he actually goes through with this-"

"Then Sin is destroyed and revenge is his. It's a _war_, Jecht. And in war," he pinched the bottle from Jecht's grip, "A soldier cannot function efficiently unless he accepts he is already dead."

"Very Auron thing to say, Auron."

Auron upended the bottle and waited for the Al Bhed rum to scorch the pit of his stomach. About one hundred and sixty proof, created for two purposes: degreasing engines and rapid intoxication. He forced the fire from his lips like bad cigar smoke and handed back the bottle. "There's only thing left, one promise that ties him to this world, and then he's free. You should be happy for him."

"You Spirans rejoice at the strangest times."

Auron rose and span half-left face. His eyes glimmered from an unlit pocket of the room. "We must. The people of Spira must celebrate the one who is willing and able to perform such a noble sacrifice. If we cannot rejoice at that, be inspired by it, then what hope have we? ... But."

"But?"

"But, I just can't... accept that it has to be Braska. Why _him_? Hasn't he suffered enough? Why not another? Is there no way to defeat Sin and spare Braska's life? Why is one impossible without the other?"

Exhausted by his self-assault of impenetrable questions, he plunged back into the chair, fingers kneading the skin of his forehead. He felt the glazed base of the bottle rap him on the knee.

"Hey." Jecht slurred. "If there's one thing I learned, it's impossible is nothin'. Wouldn't be the Great Jecht if I didn't believe that." His glare seemed to float, disparate from the rest of his face, looking through Auron rather than at him. "We _can_ keep him alive."

"You can't just say things like that without a plan!"

"Oh, plan, schmlan! Plan don't matter, not yet, anyways. When we get up there, to... the old Zanarkand, _hm_, and we see what's what, then we can get to plannin'. I Promise."

A low, residing hum resounded in Auron's throat. He curled up one side of his mouth. "You know, Jecht. You're a better drunk than last time."


	37. Out of Time

XXXVII

_Out of Time_

He found stillness to be useful for a time, until he was made to squirm, fidget and roll by the swirling nausea demon. This was a hangover for the ages, compounded by the inescapable heat. It seared through his new portal window and slow-cooked the forearm he had pressed against his eyes. Jecht was sprawled on sweated sheets, between being on his back and his left side. Morning crust glued the corners of his mouth as his tongue, fetid by bacteria, stirred like a drowsy cave bear. He had taken to mouth breathing because, while last night's vomit had died and hardened, this morning's still emitted its sour, cheesy odour.

The door fell to with the creak of unsettled new wood and Braska eased into the room, having to stoop to avoid knocking his pronged helm on the architrave. The summoner's hand soared to his nose.

"Oh, dear. I hope this is the part where you say, 'Never, never again.' "

"Never, never again." Jecht croaked.

Jolting him, an elastic thud impacted his stomach, just below the sternum. He inched his forearm up enough so that through a tiny fissure in his self-made cavern, he could see a Blitzball outside.

"I stole it." Braska spoke in a pixieish voice. "From an Al Bhed tent."

Jecht chuckled as hard as a morbidly hungover man could.

"I take it then that you watched the sphere?" Braska continued. The faintest of nods. "Well, what think you?"

"...How long have you known this thing will kill ya?"

"Since I knew how to read."

Jecht gyred his neck anticlockwise as to see Braska in the wicker chair, sat legs crossed in his slavishly upright posture. The light met his sandalled feet.

"The teachings of Yevon are clear on the Final Summoning. If I am worthy, the Final Aeon will form a bond with me as I have with the other Aeons, a bond that is powerful enough to defeat Sin. Alas, that bond ultimately cannot be survived by a human mind."

The delay reminded Jecht of his movie sphere. "After it is done, and if mankind is pure, if we rely on our connections with each other and we never again use machina to war with each other, Sin will never return. We will enter a period known as the Eternal Calm. This is the core tenet of my faith."

"I thought you and Yevon didn't get along no more."

"No, no, no." The words were released as whispers. "Let us just say that I have had my... _disagreements_ with the clergy, but I do believe in Yevon's teachings. They represent the constitution of my life. Yevon was a great man, a saviour, the first of my kind."

"Do you think this is what Jinni would want, for you to leave Yuna an orphan?" Braska's eyes said 'Don't'. "At least my boy still has, still _had_, his mom."

The future and the present collided again, like in the movie sphere. He was a man out of time and a man out of time.

"Jecht," Braska said his name firmly enough that it punctured the space between them. "Is what I have done to Yuna any worse than dying there and then on that boat?"

"Don't make it sound like you're dead already, man."

"When I was training," Braska's eyes staggered away like the swing of a rusty door. "A priest recited one of the teachings to me that I had overlooked. He told me that even if a guardian's head is cut off, he should be able to perform one last vengeful act with certainty. If I _am_ dead already, then I simply must take Sin with me. Even if the result is a broken family."

'Family' was pruned as the summoner visibly struggled with a spike of pain. "I've made a sacrifice, and I didn't make it lightly. It was the single toughest decision I have ever made. I feel terrible over it, but it pales next to the guilt of letting Jinni on that boat by herself."

The summoner held a protracted smoker's breath before he went on. "I made a vow after that. I would not be a coward again. But I also vowed once that I'd stay with her, always. So that makes me a liar, doesn't it. A breaker of my promises.

"That makes the life I live a lie. All this, the sea," He aimed a well-groomed hand at the small circle of blue pocking the omnipresence of wood. "The sky, the ship, even you, it is nothing but a purgatory to me, and no matter how much you inspire me to hope for a happy ending, I will never enjoy life like I once did. I am sorry if all that offends you."

"Stop apologisin', dammit."

"Sorry."

A small smile fleeted across Jecht's face as he tucked himself back into the clammy fold of his elbow. "Must have given you the itch, huh? Yevon says machines are evil and all that jazz. But you wanna see my Zanarkand so bad you can taste it."

"Yes. Whenever I imagine your City that never sleeps, the celebrating fans, the neon lights shimmering, even at night, I must admit I fantasise about it, because it's forbidden fruit. I am a dreamer, always have been. And after all, what harm is there in a fantasy?"

"Fantasy... Heh. But what if the Al Bhed are right, about the Farplane bein' just your interpretation of loved ones and not actually them? You know, their souls?"

"I only ever argued with Jinni over one thing, and that was it, until I was blue in the face. 'Memories are nice, but that's all they are', she would say." He scoffed. "She was wrong, she has to be. She'll be there."

"Ah, finally, a smile." Jecht traced it with an aberrant forefinger in the air before it vanished in diminishing echoes.

"Summoners are Spira's one ray of hope. We have to smile. Even fallen ones."

The release of creaking wicker gave Jecht the conviction finally to sit up. Braska was at the door and almost through it as he turned back. "You never showed me Jecht Shot marks one and two, you know."

"Maybe one day, I will."

Moments following the click of the door, Jecht tasted copper. His first two fingers ran against the grain of his philtrum up towards his nostrils and on the pads were two drooping red stains.

* * *

He had tried to sit in seiza as instructed, but his bum knee screamed at him, so he had legs crossed in compromise. He might have been mistaken for the figurehead, draped in dusk at the fo'c'sle of the ship. All was silent but for the gentle push of the Discovery through peaceful ocean. No gulls squawking or bombing, no whales venting the geysers of their spouts. It was mercifully quiet, and Jecht required it. He knew nobody would return to the deck for the night.

A book was resting in his lap. He had purchased it in a flight of fancy at some bric-à-brac stand in Luca's marketplace. To be on Spiran land again, he had to conjure distant memories and even a little bit of his imagination, it had been that long. Longer still when he was on home soil. He swatted away the vexing thought.

There were yellowy spots in the coarse grain of the pages. Jecht thought there was something wrong with his sight, that the squatting sun had dazzled him, but it was decay of the book. He placed its rim on the bridge of his nose. The pages smelt nearly sweet with age.

His eyes swept along the title, scribed in leprous gold: THE KATA FOR BEGINNERS by IAIDŌ. Auron's daft little dance routine represented the discipline he needed to carry this pilgrimage through to the end, and hungover or no, he would nail the fifty four steps of the Kata if it would take him all night and he had but the pale moonlight to read it.

It was not long after and a long, long time before Jecht would finally perform the steps that he nodded off, for when he came to, the sun was at the starboard side, rising. The book was strewn just beyond his reach, a naked page swaying in the breeze like a charmed rattlesnake. There was indeed a breeze and a notable dip in temperature. Clouds bunched in the north-east, dirt clinging to the bottom of them. He watched with early morning eyes the alternating light show of nature's fury, imagined it as a cypher that could grant its interpreter a glimpse of Godhead. From the way off, a growl of thunder came rushing to meet him and Jecht had never been so delighted to hear the sound.


	38. The Oncoming Storm

XXXVIII

_The Oncoming Storm_

They travelled under a tumultuous sky. Mammatus clouds the colour of brown ochre swelled, while yonder, hazy, drifting columns signalled the western coast of the Thunder Plains approached.

The S. S. Discovery quivered in the maws of a rocky bay left slick and battered by a thousand years of elemental fury. Beyond a retreated strip of pebbled beach, captain Zenedine through his spyglass spotted a hollow in the rock through which his passengers might climb. He communicated non-verbally to one of his lent Al Bhed deck hands, who flung the ship's wheel a couple of revolutions clockwise.

Waves ganged up on them, lashing cold froth onto the deck. The exciting, metallic smell of ozone started in the air. Zenedine heeded the warning and cast anchor a hundred feet from shore for the unseen threat of hull-shredding rocks.

The hatch leading down to the lower rooms clanged against the deck with a upsurge of wind as Zenedine opened it. His heavy booted feet thumped through the timber steps in his haste to reach Braska's door.

"Come."

Upon entering, Zenedine absorbed a scene of striking organisation. Braska's escritoire was clean and dusted, his rack made with an obsessive-compulsiveness only Auron could equal. A single military rucksack sat at the summoner's feet, buckled straps straining to withhold its contents.

"Braska. It's time."

He followed the captain into the howling environs above deck and the headwind was fierce enough to coax tears from the outer corners of his eyes. Braska was trailed by his guardians, also with backpack straps digging into their shoulders, also masked by the same dignified apprehension.

What a welcoming party for their long-awaited return to Spiran land: the Thunder Plains had scorched, buried and forgotten many a voyager, and all but did for them last time. Those it had not entombed had turned into the tough and wily fiends that prowled the plains. In a land this desolate, only the most unscrupulously strong endured. Only those beasts that drew sustenance from the perpetual white hot bolts that whipped at their tempered hides. Some of them were of pure static charge, suspending chunks of ore together in some illusion of form, betraying the embers of what was once a human mind.

As Auron warily secured one foot after the other in the ratlines of a rope ladder hanging from the outside of the hull, he sensed a dead weight whoosh past the edge of his personal space and then heard a detonation above the sharp wrawl of the wind. A white, bubbling wake blossomed in the water as Jecht buoyed to the surface.

"You fool, Jecht! There could have been rocks!"

"Come on in, Auron," Jecht hollered back, momentarily submersed by a spike in the ocean. "The water's fine!"

Auron released a captive breath and his grip left the rope. As the cold rushed up his body, flooding the space between his inner breastplate and bare chest, a grimace twisted his face.

"Not a swimmer, are ya!"

"Not. If I. Can help it!"

"I thought we was supposed to be landin' at Macarena Lake, anyway!"

"Don't be dense, Jecht." Auron spluttered as seawater siphoned into his mouth. "We took a big detour, remember, and we didn't replenish our food stocks."

Braska made his tremulous way down the rope ladder towards the same frigid fate.

"It is bitterly cold, milord," Auron yelled, "But I believe the current is safe."

The summoner showed him the most smug of smiles before freezing the top nine inches of the ocean, thereby fashioning a strip for him to land upon quite safely. He tugged at a bothersome crease in his robe.

"That's magic, gentlemen."

The tides before his footfalls would decelerate and set like fired clay as the raft behind him fragmented and sank, while his stalwarts warred with the robust swell abreast him. Their rocky enclave was slick with the residue of waves, under a barrage of brawling blows and the crash of a mighty cymbal frenziedly in the night; Jecht in particular struggled to find purchase with his bare feet.

So entrenched in the atavistic need to find terra firma, Braska had forgotten they were still in eye shot of Zenedine, who had not moved since they left the ship ten minutes before. His old ward, the ferryman with whom he had lived more than anyone save his wife and daughter, cut a statuesque figure, finally ground down to his bones, bereft of the seafaring spirit from when they met some fifteen years ago, his expression locked in a portrait of melancholy. Braska was surely looking in a mirror.

He did what was natural to him: enact the prayer of Yevon, the nod for Zenedine to go about the remainder of his life. The captain barked some blunt demand and the anchor was aweigh. As the S. S. Discovery eloped with the darkness, Zenedine proffered a steady thumbs-up until his features dimmed and he was rendered a shadow.

"Turn around, walk away and don't look back."

_To whom was Braska's instruction directed?_

* * *

The rain bounced off of the ground in its ferocity as lightning coiled in a live sky. Near bolts split their sight, leaving kaleidoscopic swarms of insects bursting outwards towards their peripheries. The _crack-boom_ of machina rifles from a valley hurtled at them and, alas for their nerves, was arbitrary in when and where a hundred thousand amps might lash next.

They intuited the potential for an unceremonious death like that of the architect who designed the monolithic lightning rods that patterned the plains. And bolts were not the only threat. Fiends congregated in the spaces where they sensed lightning would strike, making the radii of the rods the only safe zones for miles. Shuttles had to be fleet and sure-footed, and the pilgrims were glad the fiends were more attentive of the heavens than them.

The location of the Bilghen Memorial Travel Agency was like a Yevon-sent test in itself, as when the front door catapulted open only with a nudge of Auron's tremoring hand, he felt every axon in his body burning. He was jaded in the deep flesh around his bones and dubious a good night's sleep would be enough to fix him.

Before, even with Jecht's buffoonery, they had a vernal, naïve energy that saw them through it. This time was different. They were weathered, heavy, older. This was the true test of the pilgrimage. Starting was easy, but finishing was monstrous to visualise and to realise. Especially when summoner and guardian, friends, knew what finishing meant.

From the depths of their coin purse they could rally just enough gil to afford a double bed for the night, with Jecht zipped up in chrysalis on the floor. Auron, exhausted, did not propose shifts and instead had the wand for the window blinds delicately propped against the door. All three men, in spite of the war outside, fell into the insensate and lawless realm of dreams.

* * *

Through the low, phosphorescent caverns and over high, snowy terrain, Braska seemed to glide inches above the ground, but at speeds he could not achieve in a sprint. He discovered himself on a claw-scarred knoll in the Calm Lands. The sun was veiled by a funeral smog as pillars of water cycloned up in the distance, dizzyingly high where he could no longer discern them from a skyline threatened by dark, encroaching storm clouds.

In a trice, Sin was up over him with a woosh that depressed the air. Its gravitational pull brought the summoner's heels from the grass. Braska pushed his stave to the sky in readiness. But Sin then spoke in a disorienting jumble of female cries and broken thoughts vomited into blocks of words that made no sense. The terror plunged into his gut when he recognised it as Jinni's voice. As her torment sank to the bed of his mind, one sentence found leverage in his brain, whispering without teeth, on a loop.

_...Who says Sin is objective? Everyone has their own personal Sin..._

They found each other. She dangled with a broken neck from Sin's undercarriage via a fibrous umbilical cord that melded into the necrosed flesh of her head, in the same way tendon becomes bone. Her nude body was chafed by sand, bloated, only owning one arm and a leg to the knee; eyeless sockets held him in contempt.

Aghast, he fled.

Across the baked deserts of Navika continued the pursuit. Braska felt like he was running through mud, his lungs ignited, but Sin was a mocking fifty yards back, revelling in but the chase. Through the windy streets of Bevelle the destroyer hunted him, its vacuumous orifice at foot level, devouring the road and the buildings, the very reality behind him. Braska barged faceless people to the ground in his desperation to escape, looked back as they stretched into Sin's gullet like gum yanked from tree bark. The cacophonous music of stone being wrenched from its foundations, shards of glass slicing his eardrums and the recurring crescendo of lives ending, suited Sin's miserable orchestra.

The summoner's foot planted in the hem of his robe and he was down on the cobblestone. His eyes mapped the route of his scattered stave and up to the heterochromic eyes of little Yuna at the front door of their old home; a doll hung limp from her grasp. Braska's bottom lip trembled as a pall enveloped him.

He was flying again. Sin had swallowed all the world, the Calm Lands too, and it was there he was once more in anticipation of duelling with the beast. His staff cut down and round with a trail of pyreflies, autarchic of his free will. He twiddled it between finger and thumb as his body became a dervish of summoning energy. Invisible hands eased him six feet into the air, radiating with that familiar spectral whine, and then a violent clench of each wrist; bruises formed instantly. Each arm became one side in a tug of war, jerked bolt outright with enough force to dislocate his shoulders.

A runnel of blood leaked from his mouth and stained the brilliant white of his cowl. His lips peeled back to expose teeth filmed with thin orange. In a wet snap, Braska's sky went briefly red. A sinewy taloned arm protruded from the summoner's chest, caked in visceral blood, his own blood. The being began to inch itself from the ghastly scissure as Braska stared dumbfounded.

When the birth was complete, a shrivelled summoner slumped back to earth, the skin around his face pulled taut to the skull. He beheld the top-heavy form of the beautiful Final Aeon that had shed him, growing in stature as it waylaid Sin with muscular strikes. He looked down at his skeletal hands, doused in gore, bone fragments and other unidentifiable organic elements. Tears began to rivulet in the wrinkles of his face. In these final moments, he was entirely alone as an insectile spectator to a clash of gods.

In a geriatric voice, he wheezed his final words, "This is how… it was meant to end…?"

Time wound down to a fraction. The Final Aeon retracted its arm, the terrain of muscles in its shoulder and back knotting for a moment, and the fist pushed through like a piston, smashing Sin with a skin-splitting bang. A blinding flare erupted from Sin's shell, the split of an atom deep within it, and the curling light bloated out, disintegrating everything: Sin, the Aeon, the cliffs imploded like dominoes, and when it finally reached him, it blew the flesh from his bones like slow-cooked pork.

* * *

His limbs twitched in myclonic jerks as he plunged from a crumbling balcony. Auron was plummeting from miles above Spira, in a place where the air did not resist and the horizon bowed under the weight of darkness. He was screaming silence into a void. Tiny, assured fingers grasped his; the little girl with a little smile. His shepherd.

For a spell, Auron was centred and Zen. Thoughts of death brought peace and the promise of transition, until he felt her fingers unravelling from his. As he squeezed harder, the more she slipped. With a flinch, she was drifting away from him with hateful, vanishing eyes.

He was blanketed in the turbulence of thunder clouds, unable to distinguish up from down. Air rushed past his ears as existential terror seeped through him again. The crimson ocean below started to add definition: he could make out the waves now, riotous and dissonant.

As he hit, it was all he could do to brace himself. But he was not dead, or even in water. He had fallen into the black antimatter of the soul, where sunbeams above the surface could not pierce. Pyreflies languished like slow motion meteors, their lambent heads casting off cool blues and magentas along the flagellum. Auron was enraptured by them, the only lights in light years of nonexistence. Above their childly whimpers, he was convinced he could hear a steady scream from above rising, or indeed falling, until it was right on top of his position.

He must have noticed Braska partly by the sound of his voice, his instincts and the split-second he had to react after seeing him. His arm extended true and firm, but late. The summoner kept falling beyond him with hateful, vanishing eyes until he was drowned in the abyss, forever lost.

* * *

A fire exit door bust open into the alleyway out back of Vox Acid and Jecht tumbled through, grappling with a denim-clad strumpet. Throwing her shoulder blades to the brick, he thrust his tongue into her mouth with the sang-froid of a soused Lothario. He surfaced for air, and she breathed vowels into and around him as he went for seconds.

"My place or yours? Missus is takin' my boy to her ma's fer the weekend." he slurred.

Jecht ran his ruttish gaze over her at length, away from the strobes and the flattering qualities of murky club ambience. He smuggled a fleeting wince, was happy he had gotten away with it. She wore downy, feathered blonde hair and raccoon mascara. Real retro, when retro wasn't 'in'. A shock of cheap fuchsia lipstick smeared across her chin, his too in all reckoning. The neon BAR sign sprinkled garish contrast over her, sketched gaunt shadows under her crooked nose and cheekbones. Combat scars marched across her face and jawline. There was even an old wound running across her windpipe!

_Oh, she'd better not one of them self-harmin' freaks. Face is a write-off._

Gratefully, a push-up bra gave her breasts an anti-gravity Jecht needed to see. Focussing on the body, he groped her further in the hovercab, spotting the occasional eyes in the rear view of a bored, horny driver. A semi pressed into her hip as he ground against her. It was a brisk five minute route from B-North to A-East, in which time Jecht had whispered all manner of promises to her as he nibbled on her ear lobe.

Outside Jecht's condominium, they spilt out of the taxi into the gutter. She pitched a shrill laugh into the Zanarkand night. Still giggling into her clavicle, Jecht bear-hugged her to a stand.

"That's thirteen gil, pal."

"I'm the Great Jecht, sports fan. Get bent."

He mouthed the word 'asshole' as the driver revved away in low gear, the vehicle a propagation of his outrage. They went at it again, Jecht extricating her from the sliding sheet doors into the wall. Her backside knocked over a miniature palm tree that met the sidewalk with the crash of terracotta.

With lips still locked, Jecht scaled his eyes up the onion dome of his apartment, beaded in bangles of electric light, little windows into the lives of others. A holo-ring whorled around the summit; it gave him that unacclimatisable out-of-body sensation, with the third-person footage of his latest triumph. Beyond the high rise and the famous Zanarkand arch, storm clouds conspired to wash away his iridescent little fantasy, so he ushered her into the marble lobby.

The maglevator raised them to his floor. He could scarcely concentrate on swipe-carding access into the apartment for her fondling him down below. Into the master bedroom they stumbled; a stray body part blundered into a family photograph en route. In a graceful shift of body shape, she quelled the fervid kinetic energy between them. She made their mambo into a slow dance, and set Jecht down on the foot of the bed.

Her tube top and denim miniskirt went in opposite directions. A pirouette for his consideration.

"Nice." He thought he'd spied a thong riding her hips earlier.

Keeping her knees straight, she bent forwards and touched the tips of her slingbacks, heard Jecht respire from behind her. Holding that pose, she unhooked her bra and let it fall across her forearm. Her back straightened with the demure ease of a cat and she looked over her shoulder with the sexiest, dirtiest expression Jecht could ever remember, before sling-shooting the cups across his forehead.

She thumbed the straps of her thong and laddered it down her thighs. Nude but for her nylons, she stood for his inspection.

_A real hard-body... majorly lackin' in the titty department, mind -I mean, seriously, will a boob job kill ya? But, whoo, what a hard-body. Real deal saver... Now, wait. The carpets don't match the drapes!_

With a knowing smile, she tugged at her blonde mane and it came free: a wig that disguised the tussled brunette hair of a tomboy. Jecht preferred it. She placed the gum she had been chomping on all night in an ashtray as he beckoned her with a finger.

She was within range. Like a predator, he lurched up, snatching her by the hips and executing a belly-to-belly suplex onto the bed. His Zanarkand Abes white tee came off in a flourish to reveal powerful traps and pectorals. His fingers interlaced with hers, pushing her arms to the headboard, making the most of _those pert little ta-tas_. He landed a long kiss on her lips, and she reposted with smaller and smaller ones.

"Stop fooling around, Jecht. I have something really important I want to say. I _need_ you. Jecht… I love you."

"That's what all the fans say."

Jecht tried to guide himself in with his hand, but realised he was not quite there yet. A plea for patience as he strummed it for a time. Once he was primed, he entered her, with a vintage Jecht grin on his face, the kind that would have showered her from the cover of every fashion magazine, every sports round-up in the Big Zee. He was bareback, but he sensed an unspoken rule between them that she would be taking the morning-after pill.

Their dance was disjointed and doomed to finish prematurely, but Jecht doubted either of them gave a damn. She was getting a piece of the legend, perhaps more significant than the reality. He was getting his rocks off. Everyone's a winner.

He began to pound his hips back and forth like the porn star he thought he was. As he climbed and climbed on waves of escalating pleasure, the prophecy of a one-on-one flooded his mind's eye. The Blitzball swung past his left shoulder on an inexorable arc towards his right foot. The contact was sweet, through the bottom-centre, on the ball of his ankle. The goalkeeper's flailing right arm was incidental as the ball nestled in the top left corner of the triangle. Goal-line tech not required. In that instant, he felt a part of him leave in the burning pressure release of his genitals. His orgasm was sounded by the official blare of the goal horn.

Upon his return, he half-expected cheers and fireworks, but he could only hear sobbing. He looked down at her. That absurd eye-liner of hers wasn't running, so who was it?

Craning his neck to the left, he saw them: his wife and his son, backlit silhouettes in the doorway. They were motionless and silent save the boy's weeping.

"It's... not what it looks like, baby. Baby! Come back!"

But Linnya was off, tugging Tidus by the arm, with a pace that to Jecht seemed exponential. With only the silk sheets to protect his modesty, he staggered into the corridor. The maglevator doors were already sliding shut. They were gone. Soberness came scattering from around the corner and hit him square between the eyes.

"You blew it this time, bud."


	39. Point of No Return

XXXIX

_Point of No Return_

Pyreflies sang verses about the dead as the shimmer of icy dreams bathed the cool steel-blue of Macalania Woods. It would resound deep in one's inner ear, a wet finger circling the rim of a wine glass. Startling how brisk the world had become in a relative eye-blink. The Forest would be positively wintry if not for the insulating leaves that pared down the wind to a swooping raider, drawing goosebumps on an arm and then away.

Spinning shards drifted up from the foliage, crystallised pyreflies like snow in reversed gravity. Tree trunks were so crowded and filigreed at such bizarre angles, that to pry a gap between them of any distance was like gazing into the cold mists of the hereafter. Even the ground was of ebony, suggesting the forest was but an offshoot of a colossal vein of wood deep in the Spiran body.

The dreadful thrill of the Thunder Plains was behind them for good, but the threat to their welfare was unabated. Macalania Forest was an anomaly indeed: not truly 'real', comprising millions of pyreflies. Pyreflies at such a density were known to hoard sensation and preserve it in the form of spheres, providing the basis for sphere camera technology. They gorged on the memories of travellers, and were an especial draw to fiends, beings after all that embodied a specific feeling. The Woods conveyed the tender fugue of dreams, and seemed to soothe the rage of mortals whose stories had unjust endings.

"This place again." Jecht's whisper rose to a rasp with the refraction of his voice. "It was tough enough last time."

"Then it should be easier this time." said Braska.

So it proved. Scrape by scrape, burn by burn, running when it got bad, or pushing beyond their limits, they had over time fine-tuned an assuredness in battle, and with each other. Theirs was a telepathic understanding of strategy, of how to accentuate strengths while downplaying weaknesses.

Braska's arcana of black and white magicks lent support to his two soldiers. Jecht was potent with sword guillotining from the shoulder, and pinpoint from deep with Blitzball. Auron, all youthful vigour, was merciless in the surgical flurries of his Katana.

Following a full arc of the sun, they camped at a spring secluded from the beaten track. The centrepiece was an ancient Baobab tree with a giant twining trunk, and hunkered into a pool of quartz water. It blossomed with a glaring sphere from its fork, like some glorious carbuncle. They almost felt bad about cutting a branch off for kindling.

"After we get through these woods," Braska began as they huddled round the desperate warmth of the fire, "We will pass the Calm Lands and then climb Mount Gagazet."

A large aperture in the trees framed the night sky, strikingly clear, each star a twinkling sequin in a tapestry that enshrouded the world. A belt of spectral pyrefly vapour part veiled the great mountain, its zenith dusted by snow, and lifeless in the moonlight.

"The Zanarkand ruins await us beyond that peak." Auron interposed. He saw Jecht's shoulders sag. "Though I will clarify by saying I believe there is a way back to your Zanarkand, Jecht. There's _got_ to be a way."

"Why'd you say that?"

"Because I am a man of logic. Logic, as insane as it sounds, dictates there must be a replica Zanarkand, a twin, isolated far from the rest of Spira." The guardian stunned his companions with his indulgence in wild conjecture. "After all, that frankly embarrassing incident on the Farplane confirmed your family is still alive. As Yevon foretells us, _our_ Zanarkand must be in ruin, because it is _not_ isolated from the rest of Spira. There is but one mountain separating them, the most technologically advanced race of people this world has ever known, from us. Their silence is damning."

"Then, that would make Sin the key." Jecht spoke in an even tone of disappointment. It drew an intrigued forwards tilt from his summoner. "That's how I got here in the first place. Sin turned up in Zanarkand one day, killed a bunch of folk, swallowed me up and I rode it all the way to Spira.

"Sin knows where my Zanarkand is, makes it just about the only thing in creation that does. If what you say is right, Sin is my the only ticket back home."

"...Jecht, I-"

"No need." the man from Zanarkand halted Braska with a palm. "For months, my gut's been tellin' me there's no way back, even if there _is_ one, you know. Most people are lucky to get a first chance like I did, let alone a second, and I dropped the ball. Spira's showed me that."

His senses, raw and angry, pulled the forest to him: the clacking branches, the tinnitus of the sphere matter. He watched the flames sporadically spit violet smoke with the consumption of crystal elements imbued in the wood.

"Sin did to the people of Zanarkand the exact same thing it's done to the people of Spira. And here's you, willin' to die to stop it. So what the hell does that make me, huh? Some tourist? No. Can't accept that.

"You've got to do this thing, no matter what the cost. And I've got to help you do it. I know I've said that, like, a hundred times, and I've broke just about every promise I've made to you guys, but I'll be damned if I'm breakin' this one."

He could feel Auron's stare burrowing into him. This was not the first, nor likely the last, time he had made this vow. But Jecht believed himself, nevertheless. "If there is a way back, then I don't care any more. I'm done screwin' up my brain thinkin' about it. You want me to choose between your pilgrimage and my old life. I choose you."

Jecht's pledge manifested as a pearl necklace dangling between finger and thumb. He allowed the firelight to shimmy in the surface of the beads, before feeding it into the summoner's cupped hands. "Sell it. We need the cash."

* * *

Bleary eyes opened to a war of attrition between dawn and the shadows. The pilgrims knew it was time to leave as the last vestige of their camp fire was crushed by a swirl of frosty wind.

"Hey, Auron." Jecht bellowed. "I'm just, uh... I just need a moment. I'll catch up with you."

"Needs must. Just be vigilant to the leaves you use."

Content they were out of earshot, Jecht dive-bombed his rucksack. Just one more travelogue of this most sumptuous of Spiran visions. With tongue out in concentration, he thumbed the REC button. The grand tree sharpened with the whir of the camera's focal length. He panned over its gleaming majesty, translucent with water in the viewfinder, until his eagerness became bested by a swell of disgust. Jecht squeezed the STOP button so hard the device creaked at its joins. It was his hope to break the damned thing, but not at the same time.

The lens peering from this sleek ellipse was neutral, unassuming. He had learned to hate it and its connection with him crashed on his ass by a spark of lightning, or heaving his guts on a mud bank. He hated that even now, he filmed for an audience of zero. But he had learned it was useful for documenting one's farewell.

There was no more logic in believing his son would one day see this or the other spheres than his returning home. It may have been a million-to-one shot or worse, but it was a shot. You must always hope, against hope. Life is worthless without the hope of a better tomorrow. And so, Jecht crossed his legs and resumed the recording.

He swivelled the camera on the ground so he was looking down into the red dot.

"Hey."

Decent enough start, a suitable salutation between two guys. _Two guys. _That scrawny little runt, skin and bones, he'd bet. What chance had he of preserving Jecht's legend when he was not even there to tutor him?

He capped his voice, wary of fiends and friends. "If you're sittin' there, watchin' this, it means you're stuck in Spira, like me. You might not know when you'll get back home, but you better not be cryin'. Although, I guess I'd understand."

Crying. Refusing to grow up. Living in a fantasy world.

"But you know what? There's a time when you have to stop crying and move on. You'll be fine. Remember, you're my son. And... well, uh..."

_Come on, Jecht, they're only words._

"Never mind. I'm no good at these things."

Jecht climbed up himself. A harsh hand snatched the camera and killed the recording. It fell into the crook of his arm, soft shaped, doe-eyed. It was then the tears started.

_Shit._ He had promised himself when he was Tidus' age that if he ever had a son, he would never treat him like his dad had treated him. Only at this point of no return it caught him, like a right hook to the heart: he had done exactly the same stinking thing.

In trying to surpass his father, Jecht sought approval that never came. Not difficult, since his old man was a corpulent waste of taxpayer's money stewing in an easy chair full of fleas, sucking down on forties like they were air. And his ma becoming this husk of a woman, waiting on him with a blind loyalty that Jecht both pitied and despised. The kind of woman who would turn her face for fear of showing the bruises.

He recalled, with acid clarity, the night the Abes had nailed their first Blitzleague title in twenty-three years, beating the Buccaneers into second, and Jecht celebrated with his young family. This, before he would properly hit the sauce in the seasons to come, just a meal at a local bistro, Art Deco with plate glass façades, real classy.

His dad just foraged on in over to the table and Jecht's smile melted. The guy smelt literally like crap, cap in hand, begging "The Great Jecht" to find the kindness in his heart to spare two hundred gil so he and Jecht's mother would not be evicted on Third day of the next week. This was the first time they had spoken in over a decade, since Jecht ran away. He was happy enough to oblige -for ma, pressing the crisp mint of a champion into his fingerless glove.

After, on the short walk home, there was dear old dad, squashed face down in the gutter, a drained Whisky bottle in one hand, cadaverously gripped bills in the other. Jecht wondered, before the rage took him, if his dad had lied to him or not. He was uncertain which answer was worse.

Jecht broke his own hand with the thrashing he gave him in the alleyway. The last thing he heard was the retreating cries of his wife and son from the opening, before a searing, squealing frenzy descended. Last time he saw his dad, in fact. May well have killed him that night for what he knew.

"I ain't a good father, kid." Jecht whispered to the snoozing lens. "Never said I was. Some guys are cut out for it, some guys ain't, I guess. Maybe there should be laws against dads like me!"

His sensitive ears attuned to the rustling of leaves and his arm reflexively arched over his shoulder. But he realised Auron had betrayed his own presence. The way he knew Auron, it was intentional.

Jecht snorted thick mucus and spat, smeared the final tears with the nob of his wrist. "Spyin'... Dammit. I suppose this is the part where you make fun of me, huh."

Auron's boots cast floating echoes as he stepped out from his vantage point. With a steady voice, he said, "Finish it. You can't leave it like that."

Jecht shook his head no.

"I'm not asking you to be in shot if you don't want to, just... give it a happier ending than that. Please."

"Mm. I don't think I've ever heard you say that to me." Jecht pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "I'm not in shot, okay?"

The camera began with a _vroom_, recentred on the tree like nothing had happened. Jecht knew Auron's gaze was upon him and he couldn't go for a second. "Anyways... I believe in you. Be good."

Jecht was sparked by a vortex of memory fragments that bled together in a timeless instant. That sense of dumbstruck awe when this bundle of person lands in your arms for the first time, the terrifying and wonderful knowledge that you're a father. A tiny pink hand clinging to an index finger.

He remembered being puked over when he tried to land the aeroplane in the boy's mouth. He remembered their famous 'Hi!' magazine shoot, a bewildered child with eyes like marbles.

He remembered giving Tidus that slightly rough push he needed as he trembled on a bicycle without stabilisers. After an initial wobble, the kid was doing it. He was flying.

_I'm doing it, dad!_

_That's my boy!_

_I'm doing it!_

As Tidus lapped the causeway of the Central Park and shot past Jecht, palms clapped in high-five.

_Tryin' to follow in my footsteps, are you? I usually charge for lessons, you know..._

_They say you're no good, 'cause you drink all the time..._

_Why do today what you can leave for tomorrow? There he goes again, cryin'!_

"Goodbye."

The man from Zanarkand ended the recording, once and for all. That was that. The machina hummed with the mesh of small gears to eject the sphere into his palm. His full anthology, spanning a year or longer. Jecht wanted nothing more than to smash it into dust against the nearest trunk, but his Blitz arm did not follow through.

"I envy you, Jecht. To have someone, to love." Auron said, only feeling a little awkward.

Jecht's laugh was like cigarette smoke diffusing into the morning sky, but his smile soon vanished. "I do, love that damned kid, you know. Just don't know how to... express it. Well, you just saw it, didn't you. For all the things I don't like about him, he's my boy. And I love him for that. I love him."

"Do you need another moment alone?"

"Yeah, I think I do. My own private farewell, I guess."

Auron left Jecht to peer into the cloudy, inscrutable aqua within the sphere. Though largely humiliating, the sphere was real, brutally so at times. The events could never be unmade, no matter how hard he threw his skull at the tree. Through its insentient eye, the camera had torn down the razzmatazz of _The Great Jecht_ and exposed his foibles and vulnerabilities. And that was precisely why nobody else, especially the boy, could ever play it back.

Turning on a gil piece, Jecht sent the sphere spinning into the great trunk of the Baobab tree and it shattered into the shards of sinking memories, osmosed into the water below.


	40. A Goodbye Too Many

XL

_A Goodbye Too Many_

Braska huffed in relief as his eyes climbed the Palace of Saint Bevelle, empyreal above the trees and into the cloudless cerulean sky. At last, verification of what he almost knew: Cid had not the method, nor he believed the stomach to inflict his proxy retribution upon Bevelle for ancient crimes against his people. Cid was capable of things. He had made judgement calls in the past that cost Al Bhed workers their lives, but genocide? Including that of his beloved niece? It seemed unfathomable his hatred of Yevon might go so deep. He was stupefied by the atrocious potential to right a thousand wrongs in an instant, but he came to see sense. _Yes, that was it._ Or it had always been some cruel mind game meant only to torture Braska.

The blue, cubist trees depopulated into a concussion of olive. Soil, a rock face, grass, real, dew-smattered grass. Braska clawed a fistful of dirt and let it wedge under his fingernails, let the mineral scent into his nostrils. Spira had reunited with them in white hot nightmares and unworldly dreams. They had at last woken to the reality of Spira. Or was it that Spira had woken to them?

They rode the peak of a grassy knoll and the Calm Lands revealed itself all at once. Though largely characterless grass flats, there were distinctive clefts and pocks that implied this land had not been used historically by grazing cows. Green thrived in tufts that scantily concealed battle-sculpted earth, like an ageing socialite fighting her careworn appearance. Splats of brown peppered the ground, the scars of mortar shells.

The frontier crashed from its fore-edges to form towering escarpments, the centuries-long aftermath of a demigod recurrently casting the devil from the sky above. The cliff sides angled drunkenly, with chunks torn out of them.

"This sure is a big, green field." Jecht said.

"These are the Calm Lands." Auron explained. "The High Summoners used these lands to defeat Sin. The battles betwixt Sin and the Final Aeon... ugh, _between_ Sin and the Final Aeon, happened here. It is also where the Machina War was waged, a thousand years ago. When it all began."

This brought a confused grunt from the Blitzer.

"The people of Zanarkand deferred their labour onto their machina slaves. Bevelle launched a brutal salvo on Zanarkand with their machina soldiers. Sin was born from this sloth and avarice. It destroyed them, and all the other machina civilisations."

Auron's segue into the teachings of Yevon was seamless: "Those who favour freedom, and yet deprecate earnest struggle, are men who want crops without tearing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters."

He noticed Braska tacitly mouthing the words with him.

"Maybe... maybe it is better this way." the guardian dared, "With Sin keeping us in check, to make sure we do not use machina to destroy ourselves..."

"No. It really isn't." Jecht said bluntly and muscled past him to point. "That sumbitch is goin' down." He punctuated with a punched palm. "Right, Braska?"

Jecht heard him hum with less confidence than he hoped for, or that he liked to think he had unlocked in him. "We've come too durn far to start feelin' doubts, fellas. The season's in its final straight, and we got us a trophy to win. Sin's fat, ugly head on a platter."

The Calm Lands, Spira's great misnomer. Rapacious fiends hunted humans and wild Chocobo in packs, embodying the bewildered wrath of summoners who had lost their way, so close to Zanarkand. The road ended here. No more towns nor temples, no waymarks. It was expected of the party to know the way.

To their equal alarm and fascination, machina stomped the plains. Stragglers from the ancient war and still in working order (_albeit hosting a millennium's rust_), sucking down on the impalpable pyrefly concentration in the air. They were spindly humanoids with low gravity centres and murderously tapered arms. That these contraptions had combated Yevon and his generals made Braska feel vanishingly small. His was an unrequited honour as his lightning spells exploded the droids in sleets of scrap.

Moving inland, they spotted fossils erupting randomly from the earth, like hair follicles at extreme close-up.

"What d'ya reckon to this, Braska?"

"I am not sure." he replied, trying to Braille the fossil. "It looks like Sin though, in some way. It stands to reason that the High Summoners would have blown pieces of Sin all over this land, pieces that we know soon eclose into Sin Spawn. Is this some powerful form of sorcery, sealing them in stone? By Yevon..."

Jecht knelt. His fingers mapped concurrent spirals in the surrounding soil; it reminded him of Sin's skin. A drizzle of blood leaked into the patterns, lending them a claret drop shadow.

"Are you all right, Jecht? Your nose, it's bleeding."

Jecht smeared the hairs on his forearm together in a crimson trail. "Yeah, think I took a big hit back there from one of those machines. I'll be fine, let's go."

The pilgrims made a late dash towards a tented bazaar a hundred yards away and alerted a chimera fiend, the hulking amalgam of bull, horse, hawk and snake. The rumble of heavy hooves behind them loudened until the fiend was levelled by ultrasounds punching from the travel agency. A scouter droid performed a sort of cadervic spasm under an electromagnetic pulse, before its core detonated in blue flame and the machina sank into a neat pile of components.

They had been made to sprint before, but this had them wheezing the fire from their lungs. Walking for ten hours some days and eating foods miserly in nutrients, had taxed their bodies. Deep micro tears lacked the rest and protein to heal, complex injuries a middling white mage like Braska could not affect. The summoner acknowledged the sour bite of tendinitis beginning at his heels.

This agency was less ornate than its siblings, not more than a pole marquee sheltering stock displayed in circularly-arranged wood stalls. The temperature precipitated as they entered the shade of Al Bhed cotton weave. There was a peep of blonde heads with green eyes all etched in concern. They huddled round one of their own, a snivelling girl sat at the nearest in a row of stretcher beds. Bubbles burst to the base of an upended bottle of spirits as punctuation to her mewling delivery of the Hymn.

"Rin." said Braska in surprise between gulps of air. "What's the problem here?"

Rin spoke a beat faster and a half-octave higher than his normal dulcet speech. "I do not quite know. She keeps saying the same thing, over and over, that 'Sin came for us'. She will not expound upon this. I am most anxious, perhaps you might try speaking to her?"

Braska descended his staff into a genuflection, so his face would meet her sight.

"Ur, oui yna y cissuhan!" her head jerked up a little, knocking a standing tear out of her eye.

"Please, tell us. What happened."

"Şin, lysa vun ic! Şin lysa vun ic!"

For his guardians, he translated: "She's saying Sin came for them. Lysa vun oui? Fryd tu oui sayh?"

"Vun dra Al Bhed, uh Navika!"

His countenance crumpled towards his nose. "Ku uh."

"Dryd vmycr. Dryd pmehtehk vmycr. Ed femm hajan mayja so cekrd. Eh so hekrdsynac, E caa dryd vmycr."

The diameter of the congregation widened. It took a moment for Braska to untangle the sentence into Spiran strands, and the horror stayed him for another. "The flash will remain forever burned to my eyes."

The realisation visited him in rapid mental snapshots. The destroyer, sensing the discovery of a powerful new machina, did what it does. Its crushing gravity flares had succeeded in triggering the bomb, finishing thousands of lives in a flash. And it was they who led it to the Al Bhed.

"Fa cruimt ryja ghufh paddan dryh du drehg fa luimt tavayd Şin fedr sylrehy. Şin'c nyf bufan dinhat dra cyht du kmycc."

Braska fell onto his backside, no longer able to paraphrase. He just listened.

"Uhmo cissuhanc mega oui lyh tavayd ed. E caa huf, eh dryd vmycr. Şin zicd muugat yd ic fedr edc badnevoehk aoac. Ed dinhat, duug y sekrdo teja ehdu dra fydanc yht tecybbaynat."

"Ruf syho fana gemmat?"

She passed a hot, angry breath. "Syho. Dra tacandc femm cuuh pa nettmat po dra veahtc dryd fana uhla so vneahtc. Uhmo Bikanel Ecmyht yht dra Sanubia Cyhtc yna cyva vnus dra cbnayt uv Şin'c duqeh."

Her brow and lower lip inched towards each other in sorrow as she tugged at her scalp and a lock of blonde hair came free in her hand. The summoner reached for her shoulder, but with the jangle of metal buckles, she was up and past him, out into the Spiran wilderness in no fixed direction, a nomad. The Hymn receded with her.

Braska saw beyond to an immense perspective-distorted gouge, appearing as a stepped circle tattooing the northern cliff top. It was the frozen final frame of an old recording that showcased the savagery possessed of both Sin and Final Aeon. He understood just how small he was, in the shadow of giants.

"Today _is_ a good day, m'lord." Auron stressed.

"_How?_"

"The Al Bhed who abhor Yevon's teachings died due to their loyalty to machina, while the faithful live on." The words were conveyed with the smug _I-told-you-so_ of a dogmatist. "As ambassadors of Yevon, we tried to warn them, but they did not listen. This is the ultimate vindication of the scriptures."

The slowest to anger Braska had ever known, Rin yielded to a pang of outrage aimed at his guardian. He emitted a strange squeaking sound, before centring himself. "As I am sure you can understand, Lord Braska, I cannot stay and accommodate you personally. I must leave, and I am afraid I must take the provisions I would otherwise provide to you."

"What the actual hell, man?" yelled Jecht.

"This is a dark day for the Al Bhed, sir, and I must provide my countrymen with whatever aid I have at my disposal."

Jecht berated Auron. "Nice goin', you dork."

Muscles somewhere in Braska's abdomen arrested his bow, as to enact the prayer of Yevon, and he elected a handshake. Rin's face was twisted but there was a smile for the man who believed he had become an uncle of sorts.

"I bid you the best of luck in your quest to purge the world of this evil." Rin said, his mask of composure now refitted, and began to orchestrate his employees in the harvest of the stocks.

Outside, with the sun shining on his face, Braska could envisage that flash. "Oh, Cid. Why..."

"You are saddened?" Auron asked. "That man caused you nothing but consternation, even to the very end."

Perhaps this was a goodbye too many. His wife, his daughter, his position, Zenedine, finally his brother-in-law and a most his friends amongst the Al Bhed. Sin had made this a vendetta against him. So be it.

"I know, of course. You are right, Auron. The teachings are right."

Braska cast a spell to banish the gloom from his face. He just... smiled.


	41. True Believer

XLI

_True Believer_

The scar seemed to inhale them towards the brink and down, down into the fathomless depths. It had one's death drive chanting _jump, jump, jump_. The shriek of squabbling fiends, like slowly crushed scrap metal, ricocheted up from the limestone to score their ear canals.

This abyss -over a hundred feet across at points, Sin had rived into the earth with one final fortissimo in battle against High Summoner Gandof, four hundred years ago. Gandof, renowned for his bicorn hat and his many deeds of charity, had dispatched the destroyer at the bottom, in the darkest darkness. It must have been an impossible hell, and Gandof's resolve would never been nearer to breaking. His life was fated to end in the dark, like a condemned as the hood slips over. But he was guided to victory by the light of Yevon's teachings. He was a true believer.

"Lord summoner."

The call became ghostly inflections in the howl of this vast wind pocket.

"Lord summoner."

Braska's body twisted in pursuit of his head as he regarded a lady in the stratified green robe of an acolyte. She had her chestnut hair coiled into buns at her temples. A bindi adorned her brow.

"My name is Belgemine." her voice had a heft dissonant from her youthful appearance. "Like you, I am a summoner."

It was customary to address a fellow summoner on one knee and rise with hands framing a prism; she was blasé to his sense of ceremony. "What is your name?"

"I am Braska, of Bevelle."

"Ah, yes." Apperception threatened to wrinkle the neutrality of her face. "You are the so-called 'fallen' summoner."

As would a red-headed schoolboy, Braska had learned to endure his moniker. He was not even sure what it meant, as his ability to summon was unaffected by his dalliance with the Al Bhed.

"Not that a label has any bearing on your ability to defeat Sin." She added, able it would seem to smelt Braska's thoughts merely by the hairlines in his practiced apathy. "Only the link you share with the Fayth and your command over pyreflies count. No temple doctrine, no maesters, no politics." She flighted a significant glance to the Palace of Saint Bevelle. "Only you, the Fayth, and Sin exist."

"There are those in the temple who would label you 'heathen' for your stance."

Just as Braska began to think her face made of porcelain, Belgemine smirked, the words visibly bouncing off and behind her. "They already did. Now, how about a friendly contest, you and I, an Aeon of your choice against mine?"

Braska blinked. It just then dawned on him that Aeons could feasibly combat other Aeons, even if only for sport.

"You have travelled a long road and learned much," she continued in her distended speech, and with a surprising void of condescension, "But I doubt you have been tested by another summoner. Well?"

A diversion perhaps, but he was not so old, nor he hoped so arrogant as to decline training.

"Take your position, then." she instructed with a ushering hand. "Show us how well you have bonded with the Fayth."

The Fayth could only tryst with one summoner at once. This considered, Braska enquired optically of his peer: _Who first?_ She countered in kind: _Be my guest._ His guardians swapped knowing looks before vacating the imminent blast zone.

Braska's swirling staff was described by a wreath of fire that spiralled inwards. This bulge of flame dropped to the soil and spread into a glyph of igneous rock under the summoner. With a tremendous rend, the rock blasted high out of the ground, emulating millions of years of pluton arrangement in a second. Waves of prickly heat bathed the spectators. Within the stony cocoon was Ifrit, the Hellfire Aeon of Kilika. Its pandiculation was enough to explode the rock, sending Braska into free-fall. A jarring show of chivalry saw the beast cushion its master on a sinewy arm before descending to earth.

In the instant before the creature eviscerated you, one might observe a hybrid of werewolf in the face, monstrous bear claws and the muscular trunk of a man, all matted by coarse brown hairs. Devil horns of obsidian erupted from its head and shoulder blades and fiery tufts spilled over its knotted back and from its haunches.

Belgemine's slender green form stayed upright and stoical within pouncing range of this savage that slobbered flaming rabies and lashed out like an asphyxiated rottweiler. An artist stroking pyreflies onto the canvas of reality, she conjured her own unique rendition of Shiva. Fire versus ice, heart versus mind, rage versus dispassion.

The Aeon's presence coerced a swing in ambient temperature of a good twenty degrees centigrade. The eyes, to which Braska and his guardians had become accustomed, were sealed away from any definitive emotion, or want, or judgement. Hers was the perfect Poker face. A balletic arc of her arm jettisoned her icy cradle in a shower of teeming reflections.

If Braska's skin appeared pink due in part to his red blood, Shiva's was a pallid lavender for a similar reason. Her coiled dreadlocks, more of a mane really, were embellished by clinking steel rings. They exuded control and power. Braska could envisage a grid of kneeling disciples, foreheads pressed into the earth, as Shiva danced the Tandava of life, death and rebirth. She wore a bedlah and moved with a duly economical grace. Indeed, there seemed to be periodical shifts, contractions and expansions, of sexual awareness which were then wrested behind an armour of abstinence.

There was twenty feet between them when Braska loosed the impalpable leash. Ifrit tore into Shiva with a fusillade of blunt force. The ice queen twined between swinging limbs with the rehearsed elegance of a figure skater and raked a frozen claw across Ifrit's chest, forcing a skip in the broadcast of its bearish roar. Shiva then recoiled under frenzied overhanded blows. Alternating shields raised and disintegrated in flashes of glass just as quickly. The beast's arms, long and grotesquely overproportioned, edged its balance off-centre. Shiva clutched an ice shard and rammed it deep into its left deltopectoral groove. The arm lolled sidewise like a felled tree. With the other threshing in blind hope, Ifrit began to flag as if its muscles languished through water.

Braska sighted a spoor of blood starting fifty yards behind Ifrit and considered the incongruity of fatigue in an Aeon. It was a decidedly mortal quality. The fatigue, however, lay in his own conviction. He sensed defeat. The aeon was his projection, and it was less than hers.

The summoner's brow, misted by sweat beads, bowed in a last spurt of concentration. Ifrit was compelled by the invisible strings, respiring and consolidating flame into a spherical clot before its snout. Metastasising it to about the height of a man, the beast flung a hard right cross into the heart of the fireball, not unlike how Jecht would sock a blitzball. It scorched across the distance towards Shiva and detonated with the breve of a rifle discharging near one's ear in an earthquake. Ember mites sparked outwards from the aureole of the explosion.

"Yeah!" Jecht growled. He began to make curious elbow and hip gyrations, "Go, Braska! Go, Braska! Go, Bras-"

The ring of fire fizzled from the inside-out to unveil an undefeated Shiva. Angry burns bubbling on her limbs and chest freeze-cauterised with puffs of steam. Framing the Aeon was a perspiring bulwark of four inch-thick ice. Its lintel failed, triggering a collapse that sounded with the wet rip of a polar glacier slipping into the ocean.

"My turn." uttered Belgemine and Shiva mouthed the words with her.

Ifrit's tired lunge found the air well short of its target, and Braska could only look on in resignation as Shiva snared its legs in dense tiers of ice. Raging, impotent blows from Ifrit's fist and horned head yielded oscillating notes of shooting cracks, but nary more. _In check_, the creature screamed blazing bile at its enemy, who appeared to luxuriate in their dominance / submission correlation. With whirling wrists, she lovingly frosted a complex geometric exoskeleton around Ifrit.

All the beast could hear were the hurtling winds of the Arctic outside, locked in a house of mirrors that offered the sight of a bloodshot eye or a snarling snout, mingled with hundreds of reflections of Shiva, from all angles and vantages. Ifrit watched as her middle finger and thumb climbed to a pinched gesture.

_Snap._

The crystalline structure imploded, skewering Ifrit in dozens of pressure points: heart, kidneys, solar plexus, temples. Braska felt a cold trickle in his spine as Ifrit slumped defeated to the soil in a cluster bomb of pyreflies. They burst heavenwards like an ash corpse held together but by gravity and its basic shape.

"Stop. That is enough." Belgemine said.

Braska's face quaked with indignation. His hands reeled his staff as he sought to evoke another Aeon. Ixion or Valefor, or Bahamut. In such a tizzy, he scat it to the ground.

"Braska. _Stop_." she insisted, but with even temper. "If the link you share with your Aeons cannot best mine, then it most certainly will not best Sin."

He was a ten year-old boy again, being scalded for wandering into the cave alone.

"There is darkness in your heart, Braska, matched only by your ability to conceal it."

His chin was on his chest. The words wriggled into the air. "Well, I was just given some distressing news."

"No. It runs much deeper than that." she spoke wilfully soft to appose his spite, "You keep old pain close to you like a badge of honour. For your sake- and the sake of Spira, you have to let it go."

Braska felt a propagation of blood in his cheeks. Few had talked up his chances of actually becoming a High Summoner. _Funny_. He revived the hyperbole for anyone who would listen, that he or someone just like him would inexorably defeat Sin, that the Calm was imminent, just you wait. As was expected of every summoner, his side mission was to act as summer in the seasonal cycle of hope.

Yet behind the bluff dwelt a black seed that had only recently took bloom: that it was a token gesture, to abscond into the wilderness and mend his tattered family name, but valorously fail at some stage. That his pilgrimage was tantamount to the _Seppuku_ often performed by shamed Warrior Monks.

"I..."

"You are an instrument of the _people_, not of your demons. You must remember why you made your oath to become a summoner in the first place." Her forefinger and thumb snaked out to find Braska's chin and elevate his stare to meet hers. "You must _believe_. Otherwise... like myself, you won't defeat Sin."

"You mean, you're..."

"Lord summoner!"

'Er!' reported across the field like a war cry as a red blur eased into focus. It was the lanky figure of a young man shooting glances over his shoulder at some illusory pursuer. He poured sweat into resprayed armour that was much too roomy, so it clanked like a sack of pots as he ran. His discarded helm made a dull rattle as it missiled to the earth.

"Oh! Praise be to Yevon!" His sides heaved freely like a dog's within his ill-fitting suit. He retched a couple of times.

"What is the problem, young man?" asked Braska, grateful to no longer be the least equanimous soul present.

Flopping onto his butt, the lad projected thick spit into the grass and blinked sweat out of his eyes.

"That is Crusaders armour." Auron became a backlit monolith leaning over him as he eclipsed the sun. "How exactly did you procure it?"

"Because, ah..." The youngster's throatboll bobbed as he expectorated some difficult phlegm. "Because, I was a Crusader once. Me and my captain."

"Vigus..." Auron's brow folded a little over his eyes. "You are no longer Crusaders? You two are mercenaries now, is that it?"

The youngster bore his torso weight through his arms. "Sin laid us very low that day, in... Luca."

The word was a clear trigger for the boy's combat stress. He cringed from something unseen, maybe a bee. "We all rushed to protect the city, and barely one battalion of Crusaders walked out. It will take years to replace the ones we lost. Captain Vigus-"

"Could not bear the shame of it, not on his watch." Auron, raiding his knowledge of military psychology, was able to deftly finish the sentence.

"He told me he could feel Lord Mi'ihen's disapproving stare, in his dreams."

Auron's tongue clicked from the roof of his mouth as he spoke. "What are you doing here, of all places?"

"We learned of a cavern, hidden somewhere on these plains." His speech was pruned by oozing saliva glands. "We understand it to be the location of a stolen Fayth."

"A... _stolen_ Fayth?"

"Aye, summoner. A Fayth said to possess a mighty but unpredictable power. Centuries ago, those Al Bhed curs stole the statue from one of Spira's ancient temples in some failed attempt to scupper the pilgrimage." He spat again. "Unable to destroy it, they hid it."

"Why would your client pay you and Vigus to risk your lives in acquiring this Fayth statue?" Auron's monotone verged the interrogative.

"You keep calling us mercenaries." The lad retorted in the snotty tone of injured pride. "No one's paying us. Captain Vigus saw the power of the summoners in Luca. You, Lord Braska, achieved more with your mind than a hundred of us did by offering our lives. He understood then the responsibility of everyone else is to lift summoners high onto their shoulders. He has dedicated his every waking hour since into helping them."

"By returning this Fayth to Yevon." Braska said.

The boy's head bobbled like a woodpecker. His lips tightened into a thin, bloodless cleft.

"So, what went wrong?"

"I'm sorry." he blurted. "We heard a terrible roar that echoed through the cavern. I think we awoke some ancient fiend, or a pack of fiends. I never ran faster in my life, but the _Captain_," He underscored the word with awe and fear as a sweat bead rappelled down the side of his skull, "He charged into the abyss, alone, screaming like a madman."

"Vigus has a wife and boy, does he not?" Auron asked dolefully.

"Now you say that, I believe he did mention it once."

Auron expelled something that was not quite a sigh nor a groan. "That death-seeking fool."

Braska placed an assuaging hand on the lad's pauldron. "We shall aid the captain, son."

"Wha-t?" Jecht decided finally to chime in. "Braska, man, we don't got time for other folk's problems. We need to focus on the big picture. The cause of all this."

Without effort began the lithographic formation of a deliciously ironic thought in Auron's mind. He considered proffering it, then at last dared to commit.

"It's the right thing to do, Jecht."

"Damn." Jecht smirked. "Heh. So, that's what that feels like."

"In any case, Jecht, if I could bond with this mighty lost Fayth, it can only boost our chances of defeating Sin."

Especially with the humiliation of his defeat still raw, bulging at the seams of his placid comportment. Braska needed more power. In his periphery, he detected Belgemine extricating herself from the gathering. "Won't you join us, Belgemine?"

Her head tilted towards one shoulder and the incident of Crow's feet crumpling her flawless skin was so transient, it could hardly be said to have occurred at all. "An odd request, Braska. Is is not custom for summoners to double team."

"You're the one who said temple doctrine doesn't matter."

"_Touché_." She nodded slowly, acquiescently. "Very well, I shall assist you, because time is of the essence if we wish to save your friend's life, and because there is more I must tell you. I sense your propensity to help others, like old summoner Gandof, will put paid to my lesson if I do not accompany you."


End file.
